


Unspoken Rules

by Anonymous



Series: Rurus (@sparklingco2) Skephalo Pieces [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Kissing, M/M, Minecraft, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The first time it had happened had been when Skeppy had seen the man approaching the kitchen sink and felt a jolt of guilt-ridden remembrance lurch in his gut. Three steps away, he’d managed to cut Bad off and grabbed hold of the dirtied plate first, applying soap and scrubbing at it with almost comical force. Bad had laughed, rolled his eyes and leaned on tiptoe –And kissed Skeppy's cheek.
Relationships: Zak Ahmed & Darryl Noveschosch, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Series: Rurus (@sparklingco2) Skephalo Pieces [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2200098
Comments: 878
Kudos: 4394
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My public twitter is @sparklingco2 - will publish work announcements there.

It hadn’t started out with intent.

They’d been adjusting, accommodating the other bit by bit as they fell into an unfamiliar pattern that comes with new cohabitation. Skeppy never intends to be a bad roommate, but he knows he has his quirks. Forgetting to turn off the lights before bed. Leaving dishes in the sink to ‘soak’ and forgetting about them entirely. But he works on it, and he tries, and Bad always seems grateful for the effort.

The first time it had happened had been when Skeppy had seen the man approaching the kitchen sink and felt a jolt of guilt-ridden remembrance lurch in his gut. Three steps away, he’d managed to cut Bad off and grabbed hold of the dirtied plate first, applying soap and scrubbing at it with almost comical force. Bad had laughed, rolled his eyes and leaned on tiptoe –

And kissed Skeppy's cheek.

It’d been unusual, sure. Nothing to make a big deal about, really, not without a chance of actually hurting his friend. Maybe part of him had thought about teasing Bad in the moment – but it had just come so natural, a gentle peck that had seemed almost thoughtless before Bad had pulled away and headed towards the bathroom.

Skeppy knows Bad. He knows the man is overwhelmingly kind and soft-hearted, an amusing contrast against dexterous fingers that can twirl knives and fire guns with unnerving ease. Bad is touchy, figuratively and literally and so the gesture had seemed to just – fit. So Skeppy had kept his comments to himself, dutifully scrubbing away and offering nothing but a small smile to Bad’s backwards glance.

It’s not a big deal. And no matter how many kisses Bad gives him, it’s still not a big deal.

Even if it’s a lot of kisses.

Skeppy gets a kiss for taking out the trash. A kiss for remembering to replace the toilet paper roll. A kiss for making dinner that night, even though it had been his turn to cook anyway.

Then again, that one might have just been for not burning it this time.

The spot where Bad kisses him shifts, but only ever slightly. Most land on his cheek, a few on his forehead. One had missed and grazed against the curve of his jaw, but any sort of awkwardness had been swept away by a smug comment on Bad’s inferior height and the subsequent kick to Skeppy’s shin.

The first one that had touched his lips had been an accident, too.

They’d been on the couch, pressed up against each other as Bad typed away on his laptop and Skeppy half-watched the latest movie in their Netflix Recommended. It hadn’t been too interesting, but his desktop had been far and Rat had been fast asleep on his lap. He’d been cozy and sort of dozing off with half-lidded eyes when Bad had said – something. Skeppy can’t remember what it was, even now, but it hadn’t been something that had warranted a response in his mind.

Bad had huffed, a little _mrrrn_ that Skeppy knows means the other man’s pretending to be annoyed. Bad’s got several different _mrrrn_ ’s; it’s rather absurd that he’s learned to differentiate their meanings.

And then Bad had leaned over for what had undoubtedly been an intended cheek kiss. Skeppy, who had just then begun to pay attention, had turned his head a little too quickly.

Their lips had brushed, just barely.

Bad had pulled away quickly, eyes widening beneath his glasses and Skeppy had just – stared. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but the silence and stillness between them had felt like ages. Skeppy’s mind had been working a mile a minute, turning over how Bad was tensing and starting to look away-

And then Skeppy had leaned over, pressing a kiss of his own to Bad’s cheek. As he’d pulled away, he’d airly added: “There, I paid attention to you. Simpboyhalo.”

And just like that, the spell had been broken. Bad had given him a squawk of annoyance, coupled with an eyeroll and shove. Skeppy had laughed and thrown out some taunt about Bad’s noisy keyboard, and familiar bickering had replaced the former silence with ease.

Part of him had wondered after that night, and there had been a day or two of nothing before it started again - but Bad doesn’t stop kissing him.

So, Skeppy starts kissing him back.

Sure, he hadn’t grown up with the habit, but Skeppy’s by no means a physically distant person. He’s done hugs, running-tackle hugs and even cuddling some of his best friends – but he hasn’t ever kissed them. But hugging Bad had felt right. Curling up on the couch and dozing off with Bad tucked against him had felt right.

So when he tries kissing, it’s no surprise that that feels right too.

The humor helps ease the way. Even with high-tops, Skeppy’s got a good two inches of height on Bad no matter how much the other proclaims otherwise. Comments about bending his neck _so far down_ to give the other a quick peck earns him little _mrrrn_ ’s and looks of annoyance that hold deep affection in their depths.

Day by day, the kissing stops being about thank-you’s for good roommate behavior and instead become – commonplace.

Skeppy will be editing a video, and Bad will walk by and kiss the back of his head. They’ll be putting laundry away together, and they’ll each sneak in a kiss against the other’s cheek every time they brush past one another. He’ll be waiting for the microwave to ding and Bad will walk up, ask what he’s making and then press a kiss against Skeppy’s jawline to get one in return.

Every so often, a stray kiss will press against the corner of Skeppy’s mouth. Never directly on the lips, never obvious enough to be sure of intent – but the feeling lingers longer than the others.

The first time had been an accident, sure. But it’s not like Skeppy had… _disliked_ it. It had been new, surprising and only marred by Bad’s visible nerves and guilt.

Still.

It might be nice to try it again.

Skeppy puts it upon himself to make the first move. He’s got a pretty good feeling Bad won’t do anything further without prodding which is – silly. It’s just kissing. It’s affection, it’s how Bad shows it and now it’s how Skeppy shows it too.

He likes it. Bad likes it.

 _It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that_ , he tells the nerves singing beneath his skin.

The moment he picks might not be perfect, but it seems to fit. He thinks. He hopes.

They’re tangled together on the couch again and Skeppy’s heart pangs, even if he is absolutely blameless for the fat tears rolling down Bad’s cheeks. Movies about dogs rarely end well in his own opinion, but Bad had been insistent on choosing tonight and neither of them had bothered to screen the movie’s cliff notes on their phone first.

They really should just add doesthedogdie.com to their bookmarks.

Bad is sniffling loudly, a confused but amicable Rat wrapped up in his arms as Skeppy gently rubs his hand up and down the man’s back. Bad leans into the touch, but a loud hiccup follows and Skeppy pulls him closer to press a comforting kiss to the top of Bad’s temple. Then another, against his cheekbone as Skeppy’s fingers trace the outline of the man’s jaw.

He ignores the tremble in his hand as he finally brushes Bad’s lips with his own.

He’s right.

He likes it.

Bad’s sniffling sounds are momentarily stifled as if in shock, but Skeppy doesn’t linger long. At some point his eyes have fallen shut, but he still lifts his chin to press one final kiss to Bad’s forehead before gently ruffling the man’s hair. “It’s okay, Bad.” The words are so gentle, his voice sounds foreign to his own ears. “Don’t cry. Me and Rat are right here, okay?”

And then there’s a choked wail, loud and unapologetic as Bad slumps forward to bury his face against Skeppy’s chest. Rat is wriggling out of Bad’s grasp and there’ll be a damp spot on Skeppy’s shirt within seconds but Skeppy can’t help but chuckle as he wraps his arms around the other man, scooting downward to better position them as he tucks Bad against himself. He rests his chin atop Bad’s head and cards his fingers through soft, auburn hair as Bad sniffles and shudders through his overwhelming grief for a CGI Labrador.

“We love you, Bad,” Skeppy hums, and gets a weak sound of affirmation in reply.

\---

Part of Skeppy expects Bad to forget, or at least keep up a pretense of forgetting after that night. The man had fallen asleep so quickly, exhausted by his mourning cries that Skeppy hadn’t even had the heart to move them to a more comfortable location. He wakes up with an achy back and Bad already in the kitchen preparing a sizeable breakfast. There’s a cheery smile to greet him with no trace of hesitation or wariness or _why did you-?_. It seems like any other morning, especially when Bad commands him to go wash up before Skeppy can even _think_ about getting served a plate.

And then Skeppy returns, hands clean and stomach rumbling as he sits back down at the table. Bad hums to himself, bringing over a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and a grapefruit Skeppy has no intention of eating. Bad leans over, plate in hand as Skeppy watches it lower and oh, Bad’s lips are on his own and –

_Ah._

It lasts a second. Skeppy feels like it should, could last longer but Bad pulls away, setting the plate down and instructing Skeppy to let him know if he needs more salt. And then he’s walking away, no trace of nerves - as if this _is_ a normal morning. As if Skeppy isn’t suddenly blinking away stars from the corner of his eyes and vacantly savoring a taste that tells him Bad’s already had a few nibbles of bacon himself.

 _A normal morning_ , he tells himself as he picks up a fork and wills his vision to refocus. _It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that._

And it doesn’t. It isn’t. Bad likes kissing Skeppy, and Skeppy likes kissing Bad. It feels natural, to kiss Bad whenever and wherever the mood strikes. At the table, on the couch, at their desks. Morning, noon, night before they part to their rooms. It feels nice, lips that are warm and soft and slide pleasantly against his own. 

Maybe the kisses start lasting more than a second or two. Maybe every movie night inevitably ends in Bad resting on Skeppy's chest, wrapped in each other's arms. Maybe that leads to kissing, slowly and sweetly for what feels like hours on end - but that’s fine. It’s their enjoyment, their norm to make.

They don’t talk about it, and they don’t need to.

There’s unspoken rules – he thinks so, anyway. They don’t kiss in public, like in the car or at the store. They hold hands sometimes, but that’s the extent. Bad gets cold easily, and it’s easier to keep the man from wandering off distracted at every little thing when their fingers are firmly laced together. Beyond walks in the park and shopping, they don’t go out much anyway; Bad isn’t really the clubbing type, and Skeppy hasn’t felt the need to go without him.

He used to, before they lived together. But the pull to go isn’t there, even when he wakes up in an empty bed every morning.

Perhaps it’s the ease of the routine that they slip into that leaves their guards lowered at the wrong moment. It’s common, when deep in a solo recording session, for Bad to slip over with water and snacks to keep Skeppy going. It’s normal for them to share a kiss, maybe ending in a cathartic nip if Skeppy is doing particularly bad at Bed Wars.

It’s not normal for him to do it when the webcam light is on. But the routine is in motion, and Skeppy’s lips are being covered before he can get out the words to let Bad know that Vurb is watching on the other end of the call.

Mercifully oblivious, Bad breaks the kiss to wander away down the hall. Skeppy is left alone to turn an uneasy gaze back towards his screen.

“So.” God, Skeppy hates it when Vurb gets smug. The man’s initial gape has swiftly shifted to one of unabashed glee, arms folded behind his head as he leans back in his chair. “ _So_.”

“Stay off Twitter, Vurb.”

“ ** _So_** ,” Vurb crows again and Skeppy is half-tempted to turn off his computer altogether, video be damned. “Bad and Skeppy are finally having the _seggs_.”

That gets his brow furrowing as he shoots his friend an annoyed look. “What? No, we’re not.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not lying, dude.” Skeppy types down the current time on a Notepad – he’ll have to edit this bit out himself. “We don’t do that.”

“Okay, well, you’re _dating_. Can me and Finn be the flower girls at the wedding? Pretty please?”

“We’re not dating.” Skeppy tabs back into Minecraft and to no surprise, finds DEFEAT emblazoned across the screen during his time away.

“Oh yeah, I’m _sure_ Bad goes up and kisses guys on the lips _all the time_ when he’s not dating them. Especially when he’s been Tier Three simping for you for years.”

Skeppy clicks through the Hypixel screens. It’s not worth starting up a new round yet, not while Vurb’s still talking. He might have to genuinely scrap this video altogether at this rate.

“Wait, does he?”

“What?” The genuine curiosity in Vurb’s tone pulls Skeppy’s attention back.

“Does he just, like, kiss people? Oh man. Will he kiss me, when we meet up? I want to tweet that pic if he does.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes at the screen again, irritation creasing his brows further. “No, Vurb. Pretty sure Bad isn’t going to kiss you.”

“So you are dating, then. Since he’s kissing you.”

“We’re not dating.”

“What do you mean, _no_?”

Skeppy isn’t sure, really. But they’re not dating. They’ve never said they are, never talked about it. The word doesn’t sound right, coming out of Vurb’s mouth.

“We aren’t dating,” he repeats dully. “Now can we drop it, or do I have to restart the video without you?”

“Oh, I **_definitely_** want to keep talking about it. Question one, does he call you his hot muffin, and do you need to be buttered?”

Skeppy holds down the power button until his screen flashes black and Vurb’s voice blips away into blissful nothingness.

\---

Vurb might be Vurb, but above all he’s Skeppy’s friend and he knows where the firm boundaries lie. Still, there’s a sigh of relief upon checking Twitter twenty-four hours later and finding no new tweets from said friend concerning the _incident_. There might be 27 missed DM’s on Discord, but Skeppy will cross that bridge when he gets to it.

He doesn’t tell Bad. It’s not something they’d talk about, he thinks. If Bad takes notice of the fact Skeppy now loudly announces his webcam’s status when recording, he says nothing of it.

Bad’s too busy complaining to notice much of anything, really.

The heat’s been broken for three days now, and Florida Man has declared his surroundings to be nothing short of an igloo. Bad wears a sweater in anything below 68°F, but the new record low of 50? Unacceptable. Inhabitable.

Skeppy feels fine honestly, but Bad walks around in bulky sweaters and a replica of his Minecraft scarf wrapped around his neck. He creates blanket forts on the couch and eats only hot meals. Every third sentence out of his mouth is a critique of the temperature and the wait for their handyman’s parts to arrive from overseas. Skeppy can’t decide if the man’s offended spiels are cute or just sad.

Even if sad, it’s still a little cute. Bad sticks to his side like glue, trying to somehow sap Skeppy’s body heat at every given opportunity.

And complains the whole time.

“You have the warmer room.”

“Wrong,” Skeppy corrects, cracking an egg against the side of the pan. It’s already evening, but brinner had sounded good after a long recording. “I’m just tougher than you.” Bad’s buried against his back, blankets draped around him like a cape. There’s a gentle headbutt at Skeppy’s refusal accompanied with a familiar _mrrrn_.

“You do. You planned this when we moved in.” Skeppy can tell from the tone that Bad is looking to win a faux-fight just to be petulant. But, Skeppy doesn’t like giving in without a little pushback.

“Wow, Bad. That’s a pretty serious accusation.” Skeppy tosses the eggshells onto a paper towel, wiping the excess goo at the corners. “So you want to trade rooms with me? You want to kick me out of my room?”

“What? No!” The exclamation is comical and immediately guilt-ridden, followed by a swift: “No, no, no. You can keep your room, Skeppy.”

“Wow, _can_? You’re _letting_ me? You **_control_** whether I have the room or not? Wow, Bad. I thought we were equals in this.”

“No! I didn’t say that!” Bad’s lifting his head from Skeppy’s back, affront mixing in with the guilt.

“You **_didn’t_** say we’re equals? Oh, my God. I have to rethink everything now. Oh my God, I have to move in with Spifey.”

“Skeppy! No!” Another headbutt. “Stop it! You can’t move in with Spifey!”

“So now you’re controlling who I _move in with_?”

“Skep-!”

Giving Bad a kiss always feels nice, but shutting him up with one is just as fun.

When Skeppy pulls away, Bad’s brow is furrowed and there’s still a series of _hrrrn_ ’s vibrating in the back of his throat. Skeppy turns back towards the stove with expectations to be called out for _cheating_ or something, but Bad voices no complaints. Instead, there’s just a familiar _thunk_ of a head hitting between Skeppy’s shoulder blades a couple times before lying still again.

Skeppy finishes cooking his eggs in comfortable silence; through every step and movement, Bad follows him. Despite the obvious signs, there’s still a tinge of surprise when, eggs in hand, he sees Bad padding down the hallway after him towards Skeppy’s room.

They don’t often go in each other’s rooms. There’s occasional knocks and calls through closed doors to relate some piece of information – but they don’t really visit _in_ the rooms. Their rooms have always been separate, safe spaces that they keep apart. Their own little dens or privacy. It’s another thing that’s gone unspoken between them. Another one of many.

So when Skeppy crosses the threshold to the room, Bad stops in the doorway.

Skeppy lowers himself onto the bed, sitting criss-cross as he balances the plate of eggs on his lap. “It’s fine. You can come in,” he offers, watching as Bad pretends to look anywhere but him.

“It’s warmer in here,” Bad replies, staring up at the ceiling for no discernable reason whatsoever. Then: “I changed my mind. Give me your room.” It ends with a giggle, that familiar giggle when Bad is looking for a fight and knows Skeppy will give him one.

“You’re such a baby.” Skeppy pops a piece of egg into his mouth, quickly scraping with his fork so it doesn’t dribble down his chin.

“I am _not_. I am _hardcore_.” Another giggle. “Skeppy, give me your room.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes, moving the plate out of his lap and onto the nightstand. He knows this mood of Bad’s, and it won’t end until Skeppy plays along. “Take off all your blankets then, Mister Hardcore.”

Immediately, Bad tightens his grip on his makeshift cloak. “What? No.”

Skeppy rises from the bed, grin wicked as Bad shifts defensively.

“Skeppy, _no_ -”

A swift lunge earns him a shriek from Bad as he ducks under Skeppy’s grasping hands. The chase around the room is comically short and ends, as predicted, with Skeppy pinning Bad and his mass of blankets beneath him on the bed. “Give them to me,” he insists, breathless with exertion and laughter as Bad squeals and tries to burrow deeper into his protective blanket cocoon.

“No! Go away!”

“This is _my room_ , Bad.”

Another giggle. “My room.”

“You’re on **_my bed_**!”

“My bed.”

Skeppy heaves a sigh that is filled with more fake annoyance than genuine and rolls off the man. His eggs are getting cold, anyway. “I have a tiny little pest in my room. In my bed.”

“My bed,” Bad repeats gleefully and Skeppy just rolls his eyes and picks up his plate again.

Comfortable silence fills the room again as Skeppy eats through the remains of his dinner. Bad makes no move to get up or leave whatsoever. Skeppy can feel the weight of the man’s gaze on his back, as if he expects Skeppy to say something about it.

When his plate is cleared, Skeppy announces “I’m gonna take a shower,” and pushes himself up off the bed and begins rummaging for his bedclothes. In afterthought, he tacks on a “Bedbughalo,” earning a _Hey!_ before he exits the room.

Whatever. There’s nothing incriminating in his room anyway. Bad will get bored of the game and leave by the time Skeppy’s finished showering.

Twenty minutes later, Skeppy returns to discover two things.

One, Bad did not leave. Two, Bad is still very much in his bed.

In fact, Bad looks more comfortable than ever. He’s untangled himself from the literal cocoon he’s created to construct a sea of blankets to swaddle himself in. His head is resting on one of Skeppy’s pillows and he looks positively smug about the look of disbelief being shot his way.

“Bad,” Skeppy says slowly.

Another giggle, but this one’s just a tad bit more nervous. Bad’s watching him. Testing to see if he’s actually overstepping.

Skeppy knows he should feel annoyed. He’s not certain why it’s being overridden by fondness.

“Bad,” Skeppy repeats, lowering himself to sit on the side of the bed.

“Skeppy.”

“Are you doing this because it’s too cold in your room?”

A tiny sniff in reply. “Yes.”

Skeppy ticks through the options. He defaults to his first guess. “Do you want to sleep over until the heat’s fixed?”

“Oo!” Bad pretends to look thoughtful, adding a small tilt of his head. It’s an act Skeppy can spot from a mile away. “Yes, please.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes to mask the tingle of fondness in his chest. “You’re such a baby.”

“I am _not_. You stole the warmer room. Bad Skeppy.”

Skeppy sighs, reaching over to click off the nightstand lamp. “Scoot over, Bedbughalo.”

\---

A new routine is formed.

It’s almost frightening how easily they slip into it, especially when the repairman calls the next day and tells them it’ll be another week before the parts arrive. Bad complains and whines through the day and at night, Skeppy finds him in his bed.

It shouldn’t feel as natural as the kissing.

Somehow, it does.

Bad – fits. It’s the only word that Skeppy can think of to describe how abnormally normal it feels to have Bad sleeping beside him. How perfectly his chin tucks atop Bad’s head when the other nestles against him in the night. How Bad instinctively seeks out a warmth Skeppy is happy to give with peppered kisses and fingers that thoughtlessly card through Bad’s soft, silky hair. How their legs tangle together in sleep and how very often Skeppy wakes to find he’s wrapped Bad against him so tight, an arm’s gone numb.

Skeppy’s woken up with people in his bed before. Girlfriends, one-night stands. All of them, someone he’d been with carnally. None of them, someone who’s fit as perfectly against him as Bad.

He doesn’t voice it. Voicing it feels like they might end up talking, and Skeppy doesn’t think they need to talk. It feels nice, and it makes Bad happy.

It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.

Sometimes it feels like it might be. When the repairman comes and fixes the heat, when the rooms hold at a balmy 70 degrees all day and Bad says nothing about it – it feels strange. When night falls and Skeppy climbs into a bed that doesn’t have Bad in it - it feels empty.

When two hours later the door creaks open and Bad stands wordlessly at the threshold of his room – it feels complicated. It feels like words unspoken, about to be voiced.

Skeppy lifts the covers, an invitation without words that’s an equal plea for silence.

Bad climbs in, slots himself so perfectly, so _fittingly_ against Skeppy. There’s no words, only quiet breaths and the sound of a long, slow kiss that leaves them both breathless despite not lasting _nearly_ long enough.

From that night on, Bad sleeps in Skeppy’s room. Rat and Rocco claim Bad’s perpetually empty bed as their own.

They don’t talk about it.

\---

The boiling point is over something stupid.

With them, it usually is.

To his credit, Bad hadn’t actually demanded Skeppy come along. Yes, he’d done the _eyes_ and the _guilt-inducing tone_ , but he hadn’t actually forced Skeppy to come shopping with him.

That was what Bad had claimed, anyway. Skeppy knows it’s bullshit.

He’s wandering aimlessly down the frozen food aisle when he spots it out of the corner of his eye.

Usually, Skeppy sticks close to Bad in a store environment. The other man is easily distracted and prone to filling the cart with exceedingly healthy foods he promises to eat, but never does. But Bad had insisted on making something special tonight, something secret that Skeppy wasn’t to know about. A surprise, just for him. So Skeppy had played along and meandered to the other side of the store to pass the time.

He’d stumbled across Bad anyway. The man’s holding a box of something, but Skeppy isn’t really looking at his chest. He’s looking at Bad’s face, split in a smile and an achingly familiar giggle bubbling at his lips.

Across from him, there’s a sample counter. A woman is smiling back, leaning on an arm and giving Bad a _look_. It’s a familiar look, a look Skeppy's seen whenever a girl is smiling at him from across the bar or slipping him her phone number with a husky whisper in his ear.

Skeppy feels an icy chill run through him that has _nothing_ to do with the freezers nearby.

They don’t _talk_ , so maybe it’s fair that in this moment Skeppy doesn’t _think_. His feet carry him down the aisle, his expression is unchanged as Bad looks up and greets him brightly. His gaze doesn’t leave the woman as he slings his arm over Bad’s shoulder and she in turn gives him a curious once-over.

“Hey, Bad,” he hears his voice say, before he grabs the man’s chin and kisses him.

There’s a noise of surprise, vibrating against Skeppy’s lips and breathed from the woman’s own.

And then the kiss is broken. Skeppy’s not sure if Bad pulled away first or he did, but a voice that is definitely his seems to say: “C’mon. I left my wallet in the car.” And then his hand is gripping Bad’s wrist, pulling him away through the store. It’s not until the automatic doors slide open and they step into the parking lot that Skeppy distantly remembers they have a cart full of food left back there.

 _Later_ , he lies to himself.

His steps slow as they reach the car, finally coming to a stop. Bad is still behind him, wrist still held tight. Skeppy doesn’t look at him, and Bad says nothing.

The silence that stretches between them is anything but comfortable. It’s stifling, even as Bad gently dislodges Skeppy’s hold and unlocks the doors. It’s absolutely suffocating as Bad slips into the driver’s seat and Skeppy drops into the passenger beside him. The car starts, and Bad begins pulling them out of the space. He turns left, heading for home. Skeppy can’t look at him. He’s pretty sure Bad isn’t looking either.

Neither of them have said a word.

Why would they?

They never fucking talk.

\---

Skeppy has vague memories of leaving the car, of Bad unlocking the door and the pair of them stumbling inside. He remembers the lack of eye contact, a lack of anything more than feet swiftly carrying him towards his room and away from Bad, still standing in the doorway.

Skeppy shuts his door, closes his blinds and slumps over in a painfully empty bed. He lays there, facedown and immobile as ten thousand thoughts clamor for attention and scream inside his head.

He manages to ignore every single one.

Skeppy’s not sure how much time slips by. It feels like years, but it may have been closer to hours. Each tick of the clock is a painful drag on his skin. Each breath a reminder that there’s supposed to be another set of breathing, another heartbeat against his skin when he lays in bed and there’s not, there may never be again because he’d gone and made it _complicated_.

Maybe Bad would forget. Maybe Bad would pretend to forget, and things could go back the way they were. Maybe Bad’s furious with him. Maybe Bad hates him. Maybe Bad wants to move out. Maybe Bad’s touching his shoulder right now.

Skeppy has to replay his last thought twice before he jolts up in bed, vision refocusing and sharpening on the man standing over him.

Bad’s hand is gentle on his shoulder, expression kind yet somehow unreadable. Skeppy opens his mouth to speak but Bad is already applying gentle pressure, pushing Skeppy down until he’s flat on his back. Bad kicks off his shoes then climbs in after, curling to settle his head in the crook between Skeppy’s arm and chest. A hand comes up to gently take hold of Skeppy’s own, lacing their fingers together as Bad lets out a quiet sigh.

Bad says nothing about the heartbeat hammering in Skeppy’s chest or the way his fingers tremble in Bad’s grasp.

Skeppy wishes he would. He needs to say something.

They need to talk.

The thoughts are back, roaring and swirling around in his head in a sick cacophony. He can’t sort out what to say, which to voice, say, speak, what’s not going to hurt, what’s not going to ruin him, them, this.

His mouth opens, and something croaks out.

“Vurb wants you to kiss him.”

Skeppy can all but feel Bad blink against him.

“… What?”

The lump in his throat is like swallowing a pinecone, but something was said. It was stupid, but he has to keep going. “He- saw. Once. Webcam. And wanted. You. To kiss him.” His own heartbeat feels painful against his ribs. “I-”

_Say it._

Another thick, painful swallow. “I don’t- I don’t want you to kiss Vurb.”

It is the stupidest sentence he’s ever said. Somehow, the hardest to get out.

Bad shifts against him. In any other situation, Skeppy knows he’d be amused. He can’t see Bad, can’t read him like this. He doesn’t know.

“I-” Bad’s voice is hesitant, almost thoughtful. “I don’t want to kiss Vurb, Skeppy.”

“Did you want to kiss her?”

Skeppy winces as soon as it’s out. It stumbled over his tongue too soon, too open. Too much.

Another shift as Bad quietly replies: “No.” Their fingers clench, then relax together. A comforting or disciplinary squeeze. Skeppy has no idea which.

Skeppy’s still trying to sort out what not to spit out next when Bad suddenly continues: “I don’t want to… um. Kiss, people.”

 _You kiss me_. The thought is immediate, soaring and triumphant before Skeppy squashes it down. He licks dry lips before rasping back: “I don’t- I don’t want to kiss. Other people.” His fingers clench around Bad’s. He has to say it. Has to get it out. “I don’t want _you_ , to. Kiss. Other people.”

Bad exhales against him. He squeezes back, their fingers locked tight. Skeppy’s not sure if the trembling in their grasp is all his own anymore.

“So,” Bad says softly.

“So,” Skeppy repeats, ignoring the shivers down his spine.

“So then we don’t- we just don’t kiss other people. Right, Skeppy?”

Affirmation. Affirmation being sought that leaves Skeppy light-headed and aching with relief and fear in equal measure. Another swallow, a breathless: “Yeah. We don’t kiss other people.”

There’s a touch at his jaw. Skeppy finally, dizzily lowers his gaze down to Bad and finds the same relief, the same fear and terrifying, unwavering adoration looking back at him.

When Skeppy leans in to kiss him, his mind is finally, blissfully blank of anything but _Bad_ , _fits_ , and **_perfect_**.

\---

“So you’re still not fucking. Or dating.”

“We are not. White team’s going mid, by the way.”

“Dude.” Vurb’s voice is downright offended. “Come on. Just date him already.”

“Look, they’re getting the emeralds.”

“Just tell me why.” There’s the pleading, the puppy-dog eyes from the pug himself. “Skeppy, c’mon. Give me the why, I don’t get this.”

A sigh follows as Skeppy launches a fireball that misses its target completely. “It’s nothing big.” His eyes trail from the screen over to his bed. Bad is still fast asleep, wrapped up in one too many blankets and his mouth slightly agape. His hair is mussed, there’s a tiny puddle of drool and Skeppy knows from firsthand experience that at this moment, the man’s breath is _foul_.

Skeppy wants to kiss him so, so badly.

“Hey? Skeppy? Your mic okay?”

“Hm?” Right. Vurb. “It’s fine.”

“I asked you why you’re not dating.”

Skeppy shrugs, even if Vurb can’t see it. “Like I said, it’s nothing big. We’re best friends, and we love each other. We're staying together. That's enough.”

“That’s it? Why not go for more?”

Another shrug as Skeppy turns back towards the game.

“It just doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: 
> 
> Unspoken Rules was crafted and meant to end as a one-shot; due to popular request, I have decided to continue with additional exploration chapters into the world and relationship it set up. However, the story was intended to wrap up with this chapter, so future chapters may be written in a different style and the platonic aspects of the relationship may move past the deniable stage. You are free to continue or stop at this single-chapter junction as you please.
> 
> Inspired by the domestic vibes in:
> 
> https://twitter.com/kevnimi/status/1338604882253787138
> 
> Please note that I do not consent to having this work reuploaded anywhere else. Any uploads to Wattpad or other sites under a claim to be me are plagiarism, as I will not upload in an alternate location.


	2. Chapter 2

Skeppy likes to think they’re getting better at it.

They’re not perfect at the whole communicating thing, not by a long shot – but he’s pretty sure they’re getting better. True, they hadn’t really had a _talk_ since the grocery store incident and sure, Skeppy has zero desire to now that the biggest grievance has been aired. It also doesn’t seem to matter how insistent Vurb is about getting a better picture of whatever – **_this_** – is. Nothing Skeppy tries to explain seems to fit the various pictures the other man is trying to paint; he has to shrug his way through watching his friend try and grasp at some sort of understanding of the boundaries he and Bad have just barely begun to lay out.

Which is fine by Skeppy.

So no, they don’t talk. Not properly, not how Vurb or stray advice blogs seem to agree that he _should_ be talking. But ever since that moment, since the confession that had admitted nothing and everything at the same time; something had changed.

It isn’t all at once. Hell, in the day immediately after, they’d skirted around each other on proverbial tiptoe without a single word of acknowledgement as to the _why_. In some ways it had been a lot like the first few weeks Skeppy had moved in; the sea of nerves of making sure he wasn’t forgetting chores, the double-checking the rooms to make sure he wasn’t disturbing over overstepping had all been terribly familiar and uncomfortable at once. Bad had been the same, seeking verbal assurances over and over of what Skeppy wanted for dinner, whether he needed the bathroom before Bad stepped in for a shower - even alerting him when he was about to go live for a stream. He’d been a wound-up ball of _is this alright?_ that Skeppy had mimicked through every motion.

The first night after had been a bit of a fluke. While Skeppy had been lying in bed, scrolling on his phone in the dark, Bad had wandered in and started to slip under the covers with a practiced fluidity. The move had most certainly been done on autopilot, judging by the way rigidity had shot through the man’s form when Skeppy had craned his neck to observe; a blink of his own sleepy eyes had caught Bad staring back at him in shock and confusion, as if he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

Perhaps it had been Skeppy’s own autopilot that had sent his arm out, fingers catching on Bad’s wrist to hold him in place before the other man could fully pull away.

They hadn’t said anything. But the gentle squeeze Skeppy had given had felt like permission and the way Bad had hesitantly lowered himself onto the bed, acceptance. The kisses they’d pressed against cheeks and chins had been a gentle _not yet_ while the ones that linger at the corners of their mouths promise _soon_. Their fingers had interlaced, folding and flexing against each other as shy eyes held fleeting, tentative gazes before closing to welcome sleep.

The next day had been better, and the one after that. Bit by bit gazes became less averted and easy banter had begun to fill what had been nervous silence. Two days later, they’d curled up together on the couch. Four, and Skeppy’d gotten a good morning peck on the lips again. By the next week Bad had been back to scolding him for this and that without a hint of hesitation, and Skeppy no longer paused before closing the gap between them to muffle Bad’s berating with kiss after kiss, until the other man is left dazed, breathless and with a completely derailed train of thought.

Sometimes he feels a little guilty about the latter, but the other man is just so _easy_ to distract.

Skeppy’s done it before, but it’s – different, now. Maybe it’s the inevitable result of the hushed agreement they’d made, or some mutual acknowledgment Skeppy’d missed as they’d stumbled through falling back into place. Perhaps it’s the comfortable weight of knowledge that Bad’s affection is promised to him and him alone, or just residual restlessness from the itch that had plagued him every day he’d gone without the other’s embrace. But it’s not reserved to Skeppy alone, either. Somewhere, somehow between the then and the now, their kisses have mutually grown – confident.

They’re still not like **_that_**. Skeppy’s sure of that in a way he can’t explain; it’s not like Bad’s ever said it, but it doesn’t feel like he’s needed to either.

He just _knows_ Bad. While he might not be privy to the other man’s thoughts in a literal sense, there’s more and more tells to the man’s inner workings that he’s started to hone in on. Skeppy’s already picked up on some quirks over the years just from voice calls alone, like the various medley of _hrrrn_ ’s and all their meanings, or the difference between Bad’s genuine moments of distraction versus when the man is pretending to avoid an uncomfortable topic. Living with him has just strengthened that well of knowledge.

For instance, he’s learned that Bad doesn’t like to sleep alone. Bad’s never outright said it, and Skeppy hadn’t really noticed Bad’s sleeping habits back when they weren’t sharing a bed. Hell, most of what he’d noticed had been Bad’s lack of sleeping with streams that run three too many hours and a plethora of empty Red Bulls in the recycling. But with Lucy now spending the nights with Rocco and Skeppy subtly hiding the energy drinks farther and farther back in the fridge, Bad’s improved sleeping schedule has started to conflict with the sensation of empty space under the covers.

If Skeppy’s still awake at his computer while Bad’s settling down to sleep, there’s only a few minutes of peace before Bad starts demanding Skeppy shut off the monitor. At first Skeppy had just chalked it up to a displeasure with the glow of the screen, or maybe the tapping of the keyboard. So he’d built of a makeshift wall of books between the bed and his desktop and swapped to a keyboard without caps for his late-night editing. Yet still, Bad had complained. Skeppy had later tried moving to his laptop on the couch, and it had admittedly bought him a little more time – but not enough. An hour later, Bad had slunk into the living room with sleep-mussed hair and scrunched-up, tired eyes that had simply stared irritably until Skeppy finally closed his laptop’s lid.

It’s become a familiar sight whenever Skeppy stays up too late; Bad, squinting and half-awake as he reaches over and takes hold of Skeppy’s wrist, leading the man back to the bed with insistent, wordless tugs. It’s cute even if it gets in the way of his editing, even if sometimes he has to push back and gently inform the other man that he really does need another hour to finish up his work. Bad will let him, even if it’s begrudging, and in turn Skeppy does start making an effort to close down by ten.

Still. It’s kind of nice to come back to an already-warmed bed, to have the covers lifted by someone who who’s been impatiently waiting to fit themselves against you. Even Bad’s grumpy little mumbles aren’t so bad when they get muffled by good-night kisses and Skeppy’s apologetic nuzzles.

Some things aren’t as obvious as their bedtime rituals. It had taken Skeppy several months to realize that Bad leaves the room whenever Skeppy eats licorice, or that Bad goes out of his way to avoid movies with spiders in them. Some are tactile observations, like the way Bad leans into the feeling of Skeppy playing with his hair but shies his own fingers away from messing up Skeppy’s expertly coifed ‘poofiness’. Sometimes it’s just sounds, like the tiny hiccup Bad makes before a scolding so that Skeppy knows he’s not _actually_ angry or the low hum of contentment that tells Skeppy he’s found a good spot when he’s massaging his thumb behind the man’s ear.

Some are things Skeppy doesn’t read too far into. Yes, Bad’s cheeks get a little pinker and his breath comes a little faster when Skeppy boxes him into the couch or against the wall. Yes, placing his hand on the back of Bad’s head or gripping him firmly by the chin earns Skeppy deeper, slower kisses. And yes, sometimes when it’s late and they’ve both stayed up a little too long and drank what hadn’t _felt_ like a little too much, they’ll spend so long wrapped in each other’s embrace that when they finally pull back, the image of Bad’s barely parted lips and vacant, glazed-over expression lingers in Skeppy’s dreams for days on end.

It doesn’t mean anything, though. Just a bit of drunk afterglow.

One observation had come with actual consequences, even if it had just been a not-so-happy accident. The morning had been typical; Bad making breakfast as a now detestably early riser and Skeppy remaining in bed as a laughably slow-starter. The heater had been working overtime as usual, puttering away yet still struggling to beat chill of the night to what Bad deemed a comfortable degree. Skeppy had announced his presence with a loud yawn as he’d padded into the kitchen, slinking up behind Bad who’d offered a chipper greeting and tilted his neck to the side so Skeppy could comfortably rest his chin in the crook of the man’s neck.

Skeppy’s put his cold hands on Bad loads of times before. While it does make the man complain, it’s never enough to earn him more than a displeased _mrrrn_ – never a real scolding, never a shake-off. So when Skeppy had rested his fingers atop the man’s hips and dug them in for a gentle squeeze, he hadn’t really expected anything out of the ordinary.

The shrill, literal **_yelp_** that had pierced his ears had been a hell of a wake-up.

Bad’s been upfront with Skeppy about the possibility of being ticklish, mostly because it had been one of the first things Skeppy had asked on move-in. Bad had rolled his eyes and informed Skeppy’s cheeky grin that no, he was **_not_** ticklish and Skeppy had been slightly disappointed that upon poking and prodding Bad’s sides and neck, the claim had seemed to be true. He’d filed it away under an unfortunate loss and hadn’t given the potential one-up another thought.

So this discovery, this news of a secret little pressure point of nerves had been a complete and unintentional accident.

Bad had made him pay for it anyway - even if that had been an accident, too.

Skeppy’s never been in a real fight before, so the feeling of having an elbow slammed into his neck had been completely new sensation. He’d stumbled back, too dazed from the yelp and confusion and sudden lack of breath to really process Bad’s immediate gasp of horror and the way the other man’s hands flew to his face. Blurred eyes had swum as he’d reached up to grasp at his neck, inhaling in a shrill little wheeze that had been deafened by the slew of rapid-fire babbling spilling from Bad’s lips.

By the time Skeppy’s mind had refocused, he’d been sitting on the floor of the kitchen with his head in Bad’s lap as the other choked out tear-filled apologies and self-damnations. The pain in Skeppy’s neck had passed after only a few moments, and his breath had returned even faster than that. But Bad had been a wreck, needing far more soothing and reassurance for what they both knew had been an involuntary reaction. “ _I didn’t mean to_ ,” had been sobbed out so many times that Skeppy had lost count, and he’d kissed away the hurt as best he could until Bad finally, finally fell quiet. It had clearly been out of mental exhaustion more than anything, so Skeppy had carried Bad to bed, wrapped him snugly in their blankets and held him tight against his chest until the other man had drifted off.

He’d hoped the distress would be temporary, but experience told him otherwise.

It’s taken three days since then for Bad to finally, gradually unwind from the incident. It hasn’t set them as far back as the grocery store – no purposefully averted gazes, no tense moments in the hall - but there’s still been moments of Bad pulling away when Skeppy holds him too close or kisses him just a little too long. Residual guilt lingers in the man’s lack of touch, which is frustrating. Skeppy wants Bad to be alright, because really, it had been an _accident_.

Moreover, upon Skeppy’s own reflection, it had been – kind of funny. Really, really funny.

But Bad isn’t ready to laugh about it, so Skeppy is left with the problem to fix and no idea how to best do so.

Against potentially better judgement, he turns to Vurb.

“Dude, that’s fucking hilarious.”

“In hindsight, yes.” Skeppy’s finger taps idly on the spacebar, hopping back and forth in the Hypixel lobby. He’s not yet worked up the energy to join a game but has already amassed a swarm of other players around his character. “But you know how he gets.”

“Man. Wish you guys would just nut up and go public about living together already. ‘ _Skeppy just told me BadBoyHalo stabbed him in the neck’_ would get me so many Likes.”

“But we haven’t,” Skeppy replies sharply. “So you won’t.”

“I won’t.” Vurb’s promise sounds sincere, at least. “But…”

Skeppy can hear Vurb drumming his fingers against the desk; he makes his own character jump on the screen in time with the beat. “But?” Skeppy prompts. “I need advice, dude.”

“Just, I dunno why you’re coming to me for it, man. You’re the one who knows him best.”

“I’m out of ideas, and you’re the only one who, y’know, _knows_ enough for me to talk about it with. Plus it’s not like anyone wanted _you_ to be the one to see.”

“I did. I wished for it every night. Starlight, star bright, let me see Bad tongue wrestle with Skeppy tonig -”

“You’re right,” Skeppy interrupts, pinching his brow. “I also don’t know why I came to you for help with this.”

“Look.” For the first time since the call started, there’s a hint of seriousness in Vurb’s tone. “Your whole thing is comedy. Why not just use that? Defuse the situation with humor until he stops feeling bad about it.”

“How?”

“Step one,” Vurb replies. “Get completely naked. Step two-”

Although the Call Disconnected tone had played immediately after, there was a grain of _something_ in it that sets Skeppy’s mind turning. He mentally sifts through the options as he leans back in his chair and bounces his foot idly. It takes longer than he’d liked and more than one loss in Bed Wars, but eventually Skeppy settles on at least _part_ of a plan. It’s not perfect and could honestly, easily backfire… but it’s something.

When Skeppy finally puts it into action, Bad doesn’t really notice at first - which might be more on Skeppy than anything. True, Bad is wonderfully, adorably oblivious in more ways than Skeppy knows how to count and yes, he loves that about the man so, so much. But Skeppy’s favorite, constant pastime of getting a rise out of the other man means that it ends up taking a while for Bad to start catching on that the _how_ and _when_ of Skeppy’s antics have changed.

Skeppy picks his moments carefully. He makes sure it’s always in the kitchen, always when Bad’s back isn’t fully turned and he can see Skeppy enter the room. Polite greetings that Bad offers are always met with a sly look and a not-so-subtle smile. He prowls around the area with purpose, making sure to always be looking straight at Bad whenever the other man glances back at him. Uneasy looks turn slightly amused as Skeppy inches closer, flexing his fingers in a comically obvious fashion as he stares straight at Bad’s hips.

The first time goes as he expects. When Bad finally cottons on and picks out the unsaid meaning between Skeppy’s mischievous stare and wiggling fingers, the man gives him a sharp: “ ** _No._** ” coupled with a look that is equally firm and uneasy at the same time. Bad’s posture has tensed from head to toe, his stance absolutely rigid as he stares Skeppy down – visibly expecting him to disobey.

So, Skeppy doesn’t. He drops his arms, straightens up and laughs. Not too long, not too loudly. Just an amused chuckle as he watches Bad out of the corner of his eyes, as the other man’s wary gaze slowly softens and fingers unclench. It’s clear Bad doesn’t quite know what to make of the exchange, but when Skeppy side-steps the unasked question to rummage through the fridge and query about the shopping list, Bad seems to just… let it go.

Since it doesn’t go terribly, Skeppy keeps doing it. Bit by bit, day by day – and miraculously, it helps. Bad’s guilt and self-flagellation begin to give way to unabashed wariness and skepticism. Tentative looks become firmer, rebukes start to lack the apologetic undertones when Skeppy’s mischievous fingers dance a little too close and make Bad stiffen like a pole. Skeppy is still careful about when to conduct the façade; always in the kitchen, never somewhere like the couch or bed where Bad is known to lower his guard. And always, always just a _hint_ of the veiled threat that Skeppy has no intention of acting on it.

Finally, one day while frying onions when Skeppy is pressed up against Bad’s back and giggling wickedly in his ear, the other man’s breath stutters in a muffled laugh before he warns: “Keep it up and I’ll stab you again.”

It’s music to Skeppy’s ears. Which is a little absurd because it’s very much a threat, but Skeppy’s next laugh is full and genuine as Bad huffs and gently butts their heads together in reprimand.

“I don’t like you,” Bad mutters with no heat and barely-suppressed affection lacing his tone.

Skeppy grins against the other’s neck, arms looped safely around Bad’s chest as he gives him a quick squeeze. “You love me.”

Bad doesn’t refute it this time; if anything, the begrudging noise he gives as Skeppy presses another kiss to his neck sounds a lot like _I do_. Skeppy just smiles as buries his face back in the curve of Bad’s neck, inhaling the scent of onion, hot oil, and _Bad_.

He’s missed this.

\---

Skeppy’s getting better at the whole jealousy thing, he thinks.

It’s not a trait that’s exclusive to his friendship with Bad; he’s always been like this, just a shy too devoted that it borders on possessive in the wrong moments. He’s driven away friends of friends during some of his younger years with snippy comments and misplaced aggression he’d yet to understand the source of. His exes had always mentioned it during the moments of break-up, sometimes angrily and sometimes just in thoughtful observation. Skeppy’s aware it’s a flaw, a depth of passion that can get romanticized to dangerous levels if he doesn’t watch himself. So through each wrong turn he’d worked on it, on himself and on tempering the flicker of hot anger that would rise up whenever someone new strayed a little closer than he liked.

But of course, Bad’s his best friend. Skeppy loves Bad, loves him so, so much. Even years back, the aspiration for their relationship to be as free and healthy as possible had constantly clashed with unwelcome surges of white-hot jealousy and the fantastical desire to have Bad’s attention on him at every possible moment. Now that they’re living together, the balancing act had become even tougher.

So yes, Skeppy had slipped up in the store. It had been embarrassing and inappropriate, born of a furious impulse to stake his claim as publicly as possible to a total stranger. It had admittedly, in a way, worked in his favor; it had forced them to _talk_ , even if the miserable moments between the public kiss and the hushed confession still haunt the back of Skeppy’s mind. But it still hadn’t been right to force the kiss upon Bad without warning, without discussing their mutual boundaries of public affection.

They _still_ haven’t actually talked about it. Yes, they don’t kiss other people, but the _when’s_ and _where’s_ of kissing each other are still nebulous at best. He _hasn’t_ kissed Bad in public since, but there’s nothing saying he _can’t_ – but there’s also nothing saying he can. It doesn’t feel like something Skeppy can start the conversation about, especially not when he’d glimpsed the same sample girl a month later and promptly begun walking in the other direction. Bad had followed and Skeppy had almost wanted him to say something, to acknowledge the flush of shame that’d reddened both their cheeks. But Bad hadn’t, so Skeppy doesn’t and for now it just – lays where it is.

Kissing in public isn’t a big deal, anyway. Skeppy knows that when the doors are closed, Bad’s affection is for him and him alone – and that’s enough. He’s Bad’s best friend and Bad is **_his_** , and that’s been set in stone. With that knowledge secure and beating firmly in his chest, Skeppy is confident that stray, flirtatious glances won’t be enough to make him jealous.

“Bad, I’m going to steal you away from Skeppy.”

That might.

Skeppy isn’t a streamer. He’s dabbled and there’s been times he’s enjoyed it, but it’s not his passion. The camera and unfiltered nature of it leaves him uneasy at the best of times; it’s too easy to slip up and say the wrong thing in front of tens of thousands of eyes. Now that they’re living together, the drive to stream has faded into nothingness. He doesn’t need a sleep-loopy Bad climbing into bed while the webcam’s live or worse, a repeat of what had already happened with Vurb. He’d already shot himself in the foot by streaming in the past with a camera on so often; explaining away why he might choose not to do so anymore feels like more effort that it’s worth.

So while he’ll play occasionally on the DSMP with Bad, it’s not really his cup of tea. He prefers the skies of Bed Wars or their more intimate moments on Skeppy’s modded personal server. The DSMP is a streamer’s land and while Skeppy doesn’t absolutely love partaking, he likes stopping in on Bad’s streams to observe. He’s not an avid watcher, but the bits he’s caught had all been fun to observe and had warmed his heart to see Bad having so much fun with his other friends.

Save one.

“Bad, I’m going to steal you.” The voice is **_loud_** , brazen and glee-filled. “I’m going to steal you away and then you’ll be my best friend. You’re my best friend, BadBoyHalo.”

Skeppy’s fingers drum on his desk, eyes glued to the screen as Bad’s protests are overrun by Quackity’s boisterous laughter. It’s a small wonder that he can’t hear the younger man all the way from Bad’s own set-up, even if the man is holed up in his soundproofed room with a purposefully closed door.

In his head, Skeppy knows this is a bit. Quackity is loud, but he’s also funny and he knows what’s going to get an audience’s attention. Skeppy actually likes him quite a bit and had even entertained a meet-up for the hell of it. It hasn’t happened yet, but it probably will. He enjoys Quackity’s content, his smarts and patter with other players. The other man flows through flirtatious bits with the entire server endlessly, all to gain views and never actually meaning a word of it.

It’s just in this moment, Skeppy’s struggling to remember that.

“Quackity, go away.” Bad’s trying to sound tired, but Skeppy knows it’s a sham. That’s the voice Bad uses when he’s supposed to be annoyed for the camera but is finding the situation at least _slightly_ amusing. Skeppy’s heard it a million times, on and off-screen.

“Ooooh, I’m going to troll you. I’m going to troll you so bad, Bad. I’m going to troll you until you give me some muffinhead.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes, reaching over to pick up his mug off the desk. Through intermittent sips of the now-cold tea, Quackity’s various voices and impersonations pitch up and down as Bad squawks his fury back. The topics shift rapidly and almost unintelligibly; first it’s about how Bad smells, to Party Island, to Hillary Clinton. It’s vaguely baffling, but at least through some small mercy Skeppy’s name has been dropped from the discussion.

“Bad, tell me what I have to do to take Skeppy away from you.”

Or not.

“You can’t. Skeppy’s mine.” Bad retorts, and Skeppy bobs his head at the screen in agreement.

Inane, mostly lewd comments are hurled back while Bad’s chat lights up with activity. They already know Skeppy’s watching, having picked him out of lurker status a few minutes in. He really should have just logged off his account, but he hadn’t felt like falling prey to ads while people kept gifting him subs.

Quackity and Bad start hitting each other and Skeppy’s interest begins to wane again. Somehow Quackity has acquired a trident, so what should have been a 3 second fight drags on for fifteen minutes. Bad is chasing Quackity around the map to little avail and spouting his usual threat of breaking legs, while the other continues to evade death by the skin of his teeth. It’s a little funny but it’s not enough to keep Skeppy’s attention for long. He pulls up his phone, thumbing through Twitter as he idly clicks Like on a handful of posts.

“ ** _NO!_** ”

Bad’s cry gives him a small jolt; when Skeppy lowers his phone, Bad’s stream displays _You died!_ in bright white letters. Quackity’s howls of laughter and gleeful: “You fell! You _fell_!” tell the story instantly. Bad’s immediately swapped from threatening to begging as he respawns, but Quackity is already crowing in victory on the other end of the call. By the time Bad’s run back, Skeppy can see the other man is decked out in Bad’s full netherite and flaunting double tridents as he jumps back and forth tauntingly.

“I got your armor, Bad!” Quackity sing-songs, ending with another cackle.

“Mister Pointy,” Bad replies in that tiny, soft voice that always makes Skeppy cave instantly. “Please, Quackity, give him back.”

“No way.” There’s more pleading, more back and forth as Bad starts to chase and punch Quackity with his bare fist – but it’s futile. One smack of Quackity’s ill-gotten axe has Bad fleeing in the direction of a landmark Skeppy actually recognizes, even if what it stands for is ironically worthless to him.

“You’re such a baby, going to Church Prime. You started this fight, you know.”

“Quackity, please, give me back my stuff.” Bad’s tone is starting to teeter on genuine hurt. Skeppy knows this warning sign like the back of his hand, knows that when it comes to Bad this is the moment to give in and back off. Quackity probably doesn’t.

It might be pointless, but Skeppy clicks on Minecraft to get it booted. Just in case.

“Tell you what.” Quackity’s put the axe away to toss a piece of steak at Bad’s feet. “Tell you what, Bad. I’m feeling nice. I’m your best friend, better than Skeppy. So I’ll give you your stuff back on one condition.”

Bad’s reply is sullen, devoid of any humor. “What?”

“No, no, no. You have to agree to it first.”

“Agree to what? What is it?”

Skeppy glances to the bottom of his screen as the Minecraft icon flashes orange; he clicks it, hitting the Play button to keep it loading before tabbing back.

“You gotta agree to it _first_ , Bad. Don’t you want your stuff back, man?”

“I’m not just going to agree to _anything_ ,” Bad shoots back in exasperation. “You’re probably going to try and force me to swear or something.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Quackity laughs. “No, Bad, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, then what, something about Skeppy? You’re gonna try to make me block him again or say _you’re_ my best friend?”

The blocking bit is new; Skeppy hadn’t heard about that. He tabs back to Minecraft, genuine annoyance starting to prickle beneath his skin as he clicks the Multiplayer button. He pauses on the server selection screen and mercifully, some degree of rationality starts to seep in.

Bad doesn’t _need_ him on. This is a bit; Quackity will give him his stuff back one way or another. Bad might be annoyed, but he doesn’t need Skeppy to ride in to save him like some white knight. If he logs on, Bad might get mad because this might get made out to be a _thing_ , and Quackity will definitely not shut up about it then.

Skeppy doesn’t need to log on. Bad can handle himself. It’s fine.

“No, no,” Quackity repeats with another laugh. “Nothing like- okay. Bad, I promise I’ll give you your stuff back. Just do this one thing for me, okay?”

“ ** _What?_** ”

“Give me a kiss.”

In hindsight, Skeppy couldn’t have planned it better on purpose.

It’s ludicrous, something straight out of a movie because Skeppy honestly _hadn’t remembered_. When he’d clicked the log-in, he’d had no idea where he’d last been; it had been two weeks since his last RP session with Bad. Yes, it had had something to do with holy water, but that fact hadn’t even been a blip on his radar as the server had rendered into existence around him.

So when his screen loads and he finds his character _directly behind_ Quackity in the middle of the church, he’s just as shocked as they are.

Unlike Quackity, Skeppy moves on instinct. His axe crits thrice; Quackity is dead at his feet. The moment the items sprawl to the ground, Skeppy hits the log-off button.

The delay on the stream is off by a few seconds, which makes the screams of realization as Skeppy closes Minecraft doubly jarring. Skeppy then sits back and stares, dazed at the rapidity of his own actions as Quackity shrieks into mic and all but drowns out Bad’s own stammers of confusion. The chat is exploding, already lagging Skeppy’s browser to the point of freezing.

Skeppy’s hands find the armrests of his chair, and he pushes himself to his feet.

He doesn’t knock on Bad’s door; it’s rude, but doing so is a dead giveaway when Bad’s mic sensitivity is up. So he opens the door slowly, stepping in to see Bad still gaping at the screen. When the other man turns to affix his disbelieving stare on Skeppy himself, it’s enough to give him pause. He hesitates on the threshold as Bad moves to mute the computer’s mic.

“Skeppy, how-?”

“I forgot I was there,” Skeppy admits sheepishly. He takes a cautious step into the room; when Bad’s face finally splits in a smile, it sings of _permission_.

Skeppy crosses the room, takes Bad’s face in his hands and kisses him.

It’s not long and deep, but slow and made all the sweeter by the feeling of Bad’s tiny giggles against his lips. The jealousy flickering in his veins eases into contentment as Bad reaches up to lace his arms around Skeppy’s neck, pulling him in closer. When they finally part Bad still won’t let him go, letting their cheeks slide and press together as Bad nuzzles against him.

“Did you get Mister Pointy back?” Skeppy asks breathlessly, and gets a puff of warm laughter in his ear in reply.

“Yes. Thank you.” A glance towards Bad’s screen confirms it as a bare Quackity storms into view. Even through Bad’s headphones, Skeppy can hear the faint sound of the other man’s indignant outcries. “Though,” Bad continues, another muffled laugh. “You’re not supposed to kill in the Holy Land. Dream’s gonna log on and kill you.”

“I don’t play enough for him to catch me.” Skeppy watches the screen as Quackity punches Bad over and over, yet not lowering even half a heart. The man’s still screaming, still hurling likely obscenities in Bad’s ear. “Maybe I should, though.”

“You don’t need to.”

Skeppy pulls back a little, adjusting so that the curve of his nose is slotted against Bad’s. The press of the other’s glasses make the position slightly uncomfortable, but it lets him look into the other’s eyes as he breathes: “Yeah?”

Bad’s touch is soft and gentle, grazing the sides of Skeppy’s neck. “Of course,” he murmurs back. “No matter what Quackity says, I love you the most.”

Skeppy grins, nuzzling back against him. “Even if he makes you block me?”

“I’d never.” A kiss to Skeppy’s chin. “Quackity’s just a muffinhead. I’ll always pick you.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Skeppy sighs, contentment spreading through him as Bad continues to pet and scratch at the edges of his nape. Maybe it had been a stupid move, more born of jealousy than he’d liked, and maybe he’s going to hear about it on Twitter for the next three years – but Bad is happy.

So it’s enough.

Almost.

“Bad?”

Skeppy sucks in a breath as the other man looks up at him, gaze full of quiet adoration. “Yes, Skeppy?”

Bad’s touch is gentle and sure, a sharp contrast to the slight tremble in Skeppy’s own as he sucks in a breath. He can feel his body bracing as the first word leaves his lips.

“Can we tell people we’ve moved in together?”


	3. Chapter 3

The room costs 500 dollars a night.

The sheets are cream-colored satin, exquisitely pressed and tucked every morning by the time he’s slipped back from the hotel’s complimentary breakfast bar. The TV has over 300 channels, the Wi-Fi never stutters, and the air conditioning beats back the scorching heat outside without breaking a sweat. Even if Skeppy has neighbors, he wouldn’t know – he’s left in peaceful silence, aside from the chatter and giggles of his two friends in the adjoining room. If there was ever a room worth the exorbitant nightly price tag, this would be it.

Skeppy _hates_ it.

He hates it with every fiber of his being. Not always, not every moment. Not when Vurb and Spifey are sitting on the bed with him or lounging on what should have been Finn’s before a nasty cold had kept their friend grounded in Britain. Not when they’re playing games, filling the air with laughs and otherwise occupying Skeppy’s attention. But when time slips by to the early morning hours and the two friends wish him goodnight and head to their own beds for rest –

Skeppy is left alone with nothing to distract him from his singular, consuming hatred for this room.

He shouldn’t hate it. A year ago, Skeppy would have been over the moon to be spending the week with his friends in a posh hotel suite. He would have been jumping on the king-sized bed he now gets all to himself, unable to sleep out of sheer excitement for the days they’ve been planning together. Theme parks, parasailing, clubbing until they drop – all on the agenda, all waiting to be vlogged until the cameras ran out of memory.

There’s nothing even inherently wrong with the room, nothing that should bother him like this. He tells himself it’s stupid, it’s ridiculous, it’s just- just-

The sheets don’t smell like Bad.

Which is absurd, absolutely eye-roll inducing because why would they, why should they? Bad’s scent, he argues to himself, doesn’t smell better than lavender and detergent. Bad smells like… like Rat, like _dog,_ like one too many late-night streams without a shower and far too many energy drinks on his breath.

Bad’s breath hadn’t smelled like that the last time his and Skeppy’s had mingled, standing in a darkened airport alcove with fingers interlaced. Bad’s breath had been minty, pointedly so, as if the man had slipped in an Altoid while Skeppy’d been checking his bags. Like Bad had already been expecting the way Skeppy had pulled him out of sight of nosy security guards and fellow travelers and crowded him up against a concrete wall.

He probably had.

Their sunglasses had bumped into each other awkwardly, half-falling off their face as they’d kissed with an urgency that still leaves goosebumps down Skeppy’s arm to remember. The ghost of Bad’s grip in his hair lingers even now, along with the murmured _I’ll miss you_ that Skeppy’s mind had replayed on loop the entire plane ride.

It’s still in his head. It’s never louder than now, when Skeppy is left alone in the quiet dark of his room and painfully empty bed.

_This is so fucking stupid._

The worst part is, he’s still kind of mad at Bad.

He shouldn’t be. He knows that, knows he’s being unreasonable and unfair for even _thinking_ about being mad at Bad about - _it_. He’s spent the last month squashing and crushing down every sliver of resentment before it can visibly surface – impatiently waiting for the unpleasant clench in his gut to finally, finally die down for good. Yet every time he smothers it, every time he’s blessed with a day or two of distraction and forgetfulness – every time, his traitorous mind will eventually pluck the memory from his vaults and run through the line over and over again.

_I don’t think that’s a good idea, Skeppy._

Which had been fair. It’d been more than fair, it’d been banal in how sensible a response Bad had given when Skeppy, high on victory and reciprocation and **_mine_** , had blurted out a half-thought request.

_Can we tell people we’ve moved in together?_

Bad had been right to turn him down. Skeppy is sure, mostly sure about that. They don’t need to tell people they’re living together, at least not beyond the handful of trusted friends that already know. It’s a safety concern, for one; they might not be as big as Dream but living under the same roof is one less location for a stalker-doxxer to narrow down. It’s an extra complication of being seen in public, because no one’s been looking for a _pair_ of men in sunglasses in their local grocery store. And it’s unnecessary noise, because they both know what their fans will all have to say about it with winks and nudges in DM’s, donos, indirects. And they’ll all be wrong, because as Skeppy keeps repeating – to Vurb, to himself, over and over and over again – he and Bad are _not dating_.

Bad hadn’t said any of this though. He’d looked cautiously back while Skeppy had swallowed acidic disappointment to beam a falsely amused grin. Skeppy’d peppered little kisses against the tip of Bad’s nose, teased _oh alright, you can keep me all to yourself for now_ and earned a huff in reply. Not _words_ , not confirmation, not talking because they don’t talk, they still don’t talk, they never _fucking_ -

The unpleasant clench in his gut is back. Skeppy digs his nails into his palm until it turns painful and resumes pacing around the room again.

Maybe Skeppy had thought his residual, ridiculous disappointment about Bad’s polite declination would somehow protect him from this. Skeppy hadn’t even bothered mentally preparing himself for the other’s absence because he just – had refused to think about it. He’d been so purposefully consumed with the hype and preparation of this trip that the threat of missing his best friend had just been tucked away as an unfortunate side-effect. Not something to overly worry about. Not something that was going to _consume_ him on a nightly basis and keep him tossing and turning as he grasps instinctively in the dark for someone who isn’t there.

_This is so fucking **pathetic**._

Even with every unsaid moment set to the side, Skeppy had still gone over two years without seeing Bad. He’d spent the first several months of their co-habitation sleeping alone without any trouble. He’s slept away countless nights without Bad, without the feeling of the other curled up against him and puffs of breaths warming the crook of his neck. Skeppy does not _need_ Bad to fall asleep. Skeppy does not _need_ to be lulled by the sound of a heartbeat more soothing than his mother’s own.

He just needs it to get more than three hours of sleep a night, it seems.

With an angry huff, Skeppy kicks off the covers and pushes himself to his feet. The digital clock taunts a bright red 4:47 back at him as Skeppy pulls off his nightshirt and begins pacing around the room. The air conditioning is keeping it as crisp and cool as he normally likes it, but the feeling of overheating does not abate even as Skeppy stands directly before the fans.

It’s not the same, anyway. As chilly as the air might be around him, the thought of crawling back into bed isn’t enticing without someone else keeping it warm, holding open thin arms to welcome him under the covers and into a tight embrace.

The image, more memory than fantasy, drives clenched fingers into his hair as Skeppy stands in the empty room, stares blankly into space and just - _aches_.

This is going to be a long week.

\---

“You look like shit, dude.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes, chin propped up by a fist that uncurls slightly to flip Spifey the bird. “Fuck off. I told you a water ride at the start was a stupid idea.”

In truth, it had been both Vurb and Spifey’s idea; no amount of arguing had convinced the other two that soggy socks would be anything more than a _minor_ inconvenience to slog through the rest of their day. Now half-slumped over in an Inn-n-Out booth with a barely-touched burger, Skeppy is beginning to outright resent the sensation of soaked trousers clinging to his skin.

These had been new Jordans, too.

“Not that.” Spifey’s chewing on a handful of fries, his own appetite completely unabated. “Though we’re definitely gonna need to stop back at the hotel for your hair. I told you to bring some product with you.”

“And I told you that it was going to soak more than our feet!”

“And I,” Vurb announces over the top of his phone, “have trended #SoggySkeppy at number 8 in the US.”

Skeppy groans, both hands coming up to cover his face. “Vurb, _delete_ that picture.”

“Yes, I’m sure the 180,000 people who have already hit Like will do the same.”

“At least the hair is covering, like, half your face,” Spifey chimes in. “You’ve got some serious bags going on today.” The man lifts a finger, tapping below his eye in gesture. “You get any sleep, man?”

“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Two hours of sleep is still sleep, spent fitfully or not.

“He misses Bad,” Vurb supplies, taking a sip of his milkshake before adding, “I told you he’d be pining all week without him.”

“I do not need Bad around to sleep,” Skeppy snaps. Still technically not a lie.

Barely.

“It’s too bad. Woulda been fun with him, but I get it.” Spifey shrugs with one shoulder. “My aunt’s the same way. You can’t get her on a plane, no matter what. You’d have to kill her first.”

“He wanted to come.” Skeppy sighs, poking around the half-eaten remnants of his burger with a straw. “But, yeah. I mean, he did have Munchy events pre-planned when I asked, and Dream’s been bugging him for a new Manhunt for a while now.”

“This is your first time away, isn’t it? Since you moved in together, I mean.”

“It is.” Vurb answers for him, prompting another eyeroll from Skeppy. “I told you. It’s why he’s pining so bad. I bet every time he’s trying to hide his phone screen he’s firing off another DM to his Cuteboyhalo.”

Skeppy just exhales through his nose, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “I am not texting Bad every time I look at my phone, Vurb.”

It’s more like half the time.

To Skeppy’s credit, Bad does text him back just as often. The other man is actually prompter than he usually is; updates and glib greetings are responded to in what is record time for someone as easily distracted as Bad. Skeppy sends him selfies and scenic snapshots and Bad replies with pictures of Rocco, Rat and various pastries he’s baked in Skeppy’s time away.

Selfies from Bad are rare. The man is notoriously shy about his appearance, no matter how much praise or how many compliments Skeppy showers upon him. It takes a lot of pleading and wait time for Bad to get a shot he hesitantly deems satisfactory to send back. Usually Skeppy doesn’t mind, and even now he still rarely asks to respect his friend’s squirmy nature about it.

It feels too needy to ask for one now. Skeppy’s been rigorously tamping down on sending a single _I miss you_ back to Bad, because _I miss you’s_ might lead to the more dangerous _I fucking miss you so much_ and _I just want to see you again_ that lurk in the corners of his mind. Skeppy has no intention of sending those off right now, not when repressed disappointment might sour his words and with how quick Bad is to slip into steep guilt and remorse at the first sign of a friend’s unhappiness. Not when Bad had looked over at him again and again while Skeppy packed, asking in so many ways if Skeppy was _really_ alright that Bad wasn’t comfortable going.

So Skeppy controls himself. He keeps his texts friendly but not overbearing. He double, then triple-checks each reply he sends to make sure that he’s only sending positive feedback. He squashes the pangs of pining clenching at his heart long enough to sound natural on their check-in calls, and thumbs endlessly through the small gallery of Bad’s selfies he’s amassed instead of begging for new ones.

It’s foreign. It’s been a long time since he’s had to weigh what he says; he doesn’t need to think out his words like this when they’re together. He can text off pleas and demands for attention while Bad is sitting in the other room or even less than a foot away without a flicker of worry. When they’re together he doesn’t have to second-guess the other’s reaction; he can see Bad pick up his phone, see the brief confusion melt to open fondness and feigned annoyance before Bad huffs and shoots Skeppy _the look_.

God, he misses _the look_.

He misses and aches and **_wants_**. But Skeppy would rather deal with the painful clench in his chest than make Bad feel guilty for not coming or dampen his friends’ spirits while they’re here.

It’s just one week. He can smile for a week.

It’s not even that hard when they’re really in the swing of things. Skeppy enjoys screaming his head off on roller coasters and smashing funnel cakes into his friends’ faces. Parasailing is a breath of fresh air in a literal sense and even if Spifey sucks at it, rock climbing is an absolute blast when he’s racing Vurb up the cliffs. They planned activities they’d enjoy so it’s fun, it’s amazing, and their grins are wide for the cameras and their laughs just as long as hard as when cackling at each other through computer screens. It’s meant to be one of the best times of their lives, and it is.

Aside from clubbing.

Spifey and Vurb have a great time with it and Skeppy had honestly expected the same for himself. Hell, he’d thought he’d be the one leading the charge in. This is his scene, his favorite form of night life. He might not know Beverly Hills like the back of his hand, but Skeppy’s still experienced enough to figure out the hottest spots from more than just Yelp reviews. He knows how to pick the rowdy from the wasted in the crowd, how to tell who’s flashing him bedroom eyes and who’s doing it with an eye on his wallet.

He hadn’t really known how to deal with _disliking_ it.

Sure, he hadn’t been clubbing since moving in with Bad. But it hadn’t been _that_ long and he knew for a fact his alcohol tolerance is still higher than Spifey and Vurb’s combined. So when they get drinks, clink their glasses together and tip them back, Skeppy’d been expecting the pleasant buzz to carry him through a fun night as usual. He just hadn’t really given any thought to what to do when _approached_.

It leads to overthinking, which Skeppy despises. There’s, of course, the mutual agreement that he and Bad don’t kiss other people, one of the few rules they’ve managed to outline through stammered admittance. But there’s been no further sit-down, no write-up of the yes’s and no’s because it just – hadn’t been needed. Skeppy doesn’t want to kiss anyone but Bad, and he _fiercely_ doesn’t want even a single considering glance being sent his best friend’s way.

The rules may be foggy, but Skeppy had known that the giggling girl trying to slip her arms around his waist hadn’t been something he could accept.

She’d taken the turn-down well enough, but they’d just – kept coming. Skeppy’s handsome, he knows he is, and when he’s going out he dresses like he really does have three cars. So maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised at the attention he’d gotten on the first night, but the inner, violent recoil at their soft eyes and murmurs of interest in his ear had been… unnerving. Even worse, there’d been a flash of a thought, of the potential of someone snapping a picture of Skeppy with a girl hanging off him. It doesn’t take much for the wrong photo to end up in the right hands, and the idea of such a picture appearing on Bad’s feed makes him feel frighteningly ill for reasons he tries not place.

There’s other, darker thoughts that cross his mind - ones that whisper of testing the waters, of seeing if Bad would be hurt by seeing Skeppy being held by another. If Bad _should_ be hurt, just a little bit, so he can see what it feels like for once. But Skeppy strangles those, throttles them into silence until their dying gasps let him feel like he can breathe again.

He doesn’t want to hurt Bad. He’s not willing to bend on that. So when Spifey and Vurb grab him by the arms and try to haul him out for another night on the town, Skeppy digs his heels into the carpet.

“I haven’t slept much,” he apologizes. It’s the truth, at least. “I’ll go another night.”

Spifey whines, but Vurb just claps a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. “It’s the shackles of a married man,” he says somberly. “No use arguing with him about it when it’s just going to get him in trouble with the missus-ter.”

“I’m not married, Vurb.”

“Dude, you’re a little married.”

“ _I_ am going to get wasted,” Spifey announces over them, “and I am going to whine about you on Twitter.”

Skeppy can live with that, so he rolls his eyes and sends his friends on their way with an extra hundred in their hands to _ease the emotional pain_ as Spifey had so eloquently put it.

Three hours later, Skeppy’s resumed his nightly ritual of staring sleeplessly up at the ceiling when his phone gives a promising buzz. He rolls over, picking it up off the nightstand and thumbing through his passcode with half-lidded eyes.

Pictures from Vurb. One of Spifey, standing on a bar countertop and either shouting or singing into something plastic and suspiciously phallic in nature. The other’s a meme, and small enough that Skeppy has to squint to read it in the dark.

Skeppy texts back an emoji of a middle finger before rolling onto his side to groan into his pillow.

Vurb’s right, but it doesn’t mean Skeppy has to like it.

With a huff that’s more annoyed at himself than anything, Skeppy lifts his head to stare blearily at his phone again. The time reads 10:13 in bright, white letters on his lock screen – it’s late, but it’s not _too_ late. Not for them.

Skeppy taps open the Discord app. Bad will pick up his phone even when half-asleep, but Discord is a little bit safer. Discord is non-urgent; Bad will either be at his computer, or willing to sleep right through it.

After a moment of hesitation, he presses his thumb against the call button and holds his breath.

It rings six times. Skeppy’s on the verge of exhaling, equally relieved and disappointed that he’s off the hook – when a familiar _ba-dum_ echoes through the line.

“Hi, Skeppy! I’m live!”

Fuck.

Skeppy clenches his eyes shut, head falling back onto his pillow as he curses silently into it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Of course Bad would be live right now. Of course Skeppy hadn’t bothered, hadn’t even thought to check Twitch. Serves him fucking right for turning off the notifications, apparently.

“Skeppy? Are you there?”

It’s tempting to let the silence lie. There’s no doubt tens of thousands of people tuning into Bad’s stream right now and Skeppy doesn’t want to talk to any of them. He could pass it off as some sort of Discord butt-dial, an error, a hack. He could just scream into the mic and hang up, and it wouldn’t even be that out of character for him.

But it wouldn’t be honest, and it wouldn’t be fair.

“Hey, Bad.” Skeppy lifts his head back up and tries to mask the disappointment into his voice into something closer to sleepiness. “Didn’t know if you were up.” _Didn’t know you were live._

“I’m up!” Bad’s voice is bright and cheery; even from here, Skeppy can hear the clacking of the man’s overly-noisy keyboard. “I’m on the Dream SMP right now. Did you want to join?”

He doesn’t. This is the _Gone Live_ Bad, the Bad who tolerates more than he should and is determined to please even the driest of his donations. This isn’t who Skeppy wants to be with right now, but it’s still better than nothing.

“Sorry,” Skeppy replies, picking absently at a thread on his pillow. “I’m editing right now.”

There’s a _hmmm_. Not a _hrrrn_ , just a thoughtful _hmmm_ followed by: “Skeppy, that’s no good. Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation right now?”

Bad doesn’t say it and maybe it’s Skeppy’s wishful thinking, but _is everything alright?_ feels implied.

“I am.” Skeppy pulls on the thread, fiddling it between his fingers. “Spifey says hi.”

Spifey is several miles away, likely five drinks in and potentially lip-locked with a stranger – but that’s more than the stream needs to know.

“Hi Spifey!” comes Bad’s chipper reply. “Don’t let Skeppy drink too much!”

The sheer irony.

“So,” Bad continues, keys tapping away through the mic. “What’s up?”

Skeppy exhales quietly, eyes falling shut again. Bad’s voice is like a balm, soothing the itch that crawls beneath his skin. He can’t say what he wants to, needs to with so many curious eyes turned their way – but he can’t say nothing, either. “Just editing.” He licks his lips, mind ticking away possible routes to take. “But I think part of the video’s gotten corrupted.”

“Oh no! Do you mean one of the vlogs? Aw, I was looking forward to those.”

“No,” Skeppy corrects, because he doesn’t need ten thousand memes of Dream’s ill-advised UK tweet repeated on his feed. “No, those are fine.” He plucks the thread with renewed vigor when an idea strikes him. “It’s one we did. I was wondering if you still had your footage to replace it.”

“Oh!” There’s a sliver of confusion in Bad’s voice; Skeppy seizes on it with a sucked-in breath. “I might. Um, which one?”

“The one we did right before I left. On Saturday.” There’s no such video; Skeppy knows it and by Bad’s lengthy pause, he might be working that out. “No spoilers,” Skeppy adds quickly with a forced laugh.

“Saturday…” Bad says slowly, sounding thoughtful. Trying to piece it together as Skeppy continues fraying at the edge of the pillow, at the edges of _himself_. “Um…”

“I didn’t know you were streaming,” Skeppy interrupts. An admittance, its true weight known only to Bad. “Don’t look for it right now. Just, when you have time.”

_Don’t stop what you’re doing. Don’t let them know something’s off._

Silence. It stretches on for three seconds, long enough to make Skeppy shift uneasily before Bad replies: “Are you sure, Skeppy? I can end the stream and go look.”

Bad’s voice is impossibly gentle, washing over Skeppy like a wave of warmth. It’s too kind for the situation, suspicious in the circumstance – but Skeppy embraces it as if it were the man himself.

“It’s fine,” Skeppy says back, just barely keeping the grateful crack from his voice. His chest aches; the **_want_** is back in full force, but the pain is almost cathartic this time. “No rush. Have fun with your stream.” Then, before his mind can catch up, his lips blurt: “I miss- them.”

God, it’s barely a save. The two of them are growing more suspicious by the minute and even if he can’t see it, Skeppy is certain the Twitch chat must be picking up speed. They’re inches away from a compilation highlight moment. It might already be too late.

“Aw,” Bad says sweetly. “Well, I miss you being on them. Maybe when you get back?”

Skeppy smothers down a giggle of hysterical laughter because fuck, when did Bad get better at this than him? When did Bad become the one in control of his emotions, of their mutual mask while Skeppy’s strung out in an empty bed and ready to rip the sheets apart with his bare hands? Does Bad really miss him? Miss him like this? Has Bad fallen asleep with ease these past few nights or does he lie awake, pining and _hurting_ and **_ruined_** by something that’s he’s apparently deemed not even worth going public about?

Ah. The flicker of resentment’s back, creeping up his spine. Skeppy needs to pull back now, needs to smother this feeling before it grows and slips deeper into the silence he’s leaving behind.

“Skeppy?” Bad’s voice calls.

Skeppy licks his lips, refocusing eyes that had blurred with emotion. “Sorry. Was looking through files. Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay. You sound tired, Skeppy.”

He is tired. He is so, so tired.

“Go get some rest, okay?” Bad continues. “I’ve got a bit more on the stream agenda, but I’ll talk to you after about the video.”

“Yeah.” Skeppy’s fingers lift to curl in his shirt. “I’ll take a catnap or something.”

“Sleep well. Say bye, chat!”

“Bye, chat,” Skeppy repeats numbly. His thumb reaches to tap the End Call button; a gentle _vwoop_ echoes in his ear as the line drops and silence rushes in to fill the space.

Skeppy’s eyes close as he lays back against the pillow, phone still resting in his hand. Not yet powered off and still feeding off its charging cable, the hum of electricity gives the device a gentle warmth that seeps into his palm.

It’s not a hand to hold, but it’ll do for now.

Bad doesn’t make him wait long, anyway. When the phone hums with the cheeps of an incoming call, a quick glance at the screen confirms it’d only been twenty minutes. Skeppy isn’t sure how much Bad had left to do on his stream, but the pang of guilt that comes with experience tells him the man had wrapped up early.

When Skeppy slides his finger to accept the call, he clears his throat before greeting the other man with a hoarse: “Hey.”

“Skeppy, is everything okay?”

A smile twitches at the corner of Skeppy’s lips. Just like Bad. Rambling thoughts in everyday life, but straight to the point when it comes to worrying about his friends.

“I’m okay,” Skeppy promises, reaching up to rub at the corner of his eye. “Sorry for calling so late. I didn’t check if you were live.”

“We didn’t really make a video, did we? I started looking through my folder, just to be sure.”

Skeppy huffs a laugh at Bad’s tentative tone. “No, Bad. That was just an excuse I made up for you to call me back. Offline.”

“That’s what I thought. Just making sure.” There’s rustling in the background; it’s familiar, like a plastic bag being rifled through. Then the sound of their kitchen drawers opening clues Skeppy in.

“Did you get food?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. It’s that Chinese place you like.”

Skeppy snorts. “Bad, Panda Express does not count as ‘a Chinese place’.”

“It’s Chinese,” Bad retorts defensively. “It counts.”

Skeppy rolls his eyes but the smile on his lips is unabated. “Whatever. Surprised they delivered past ten.”

“They didn’t.” The _beep_ and starting hum of their microwave follows.

“Microwaved Chinese take-out for dinner. You’re living the dream, Bad.”

“Well, what about you? Are you eating well over there?”

Skeppy shifts on the bed, scooting up to prop his back against the pillows. “Well enough. Gummy bears count as fruit, right?”

“What- _no_ , Skeppy.”

A hand comes up to hide his grin; pointless, but involuntary. “Well, at least the olives in my martinis are vegetables?”

“ ** _Skeppy_**.”

A badly muffled snigger earns a huff of annoyance from Bad; Skeppy grins into the receiver as he squeaks: “Weed comes from plants?”

“Oh, my goodness.” The microwave beeps thrice on the other line. “Skeppy, you are being a muffinhead.”

“Maybe.” Skeppy tilts his head to the side, listening as Bad retrieves his food. The clink of the silverware, the clunk of the microwave door shutting – it’s all familiar, achingly so. Small sounds he’d never noticed ring crystal clear in memories he hadn’t realized he’d made. “But,” Skeppy continues, voice quieted by nostalgia, “I’m _your_ muffinhead.”

Bad _hrrrns_. It’s harder to tell through the phone which meaning it holds, but the exhale that follows feels fond. “How are Spifey and Vurb?”

“They’re fine. Probably getting wasted right now. I haven’t checked Twitter for updates.”

“Oh, no.” Despite the words, Skeppy can tell Bad’s amused. “Not you, though?”

“Nah. I’m in my room.”

There’s a small scraping sound – Bad’s pulling one of their dining room chairs out. “You didn’t want to go with them?”

Skeppy swallows, tilting the phone away so the motion is inaudible. “Like you said. I’m tired.”

“Oh.”

Silence fills the air again. Skeppy fucking hates silence.

“Anyway,” he presses determinedly, “I’m surprised you’re up. I thought you weren’t doing late-night streams anymore.”

“Um.” More silence. “I’m not. I’ve just been awake later, lately. So I thought I’d stream.”

Skeppy’s fingers tighten on his phone. He wills his heart not to flutter, demands his brain not make the connection it wants to see. “Just awake lately?” he asks, purposefully keeping his voice light. “How come?”

A clink, probably a fork against a plate. “Um, I don’t know. Just…”

Bad trails off. Skeppy’s holding his breath, waiting for a continuation that isn’t forthcoming. So he swallows his pride and fills in the gap, the silence with: “Have you been having trouble sleeping?”

“Wh- no,” Bad says too quickly, in that tone he always uses when he’s _lying_.

Skeppy has never been so happy to be lied to before. His heart is doing little flip-flops in his chest as he exhales: “I’ve been having trouble sleeping, too.”

“I’m-” Bad struggles for a moment and Skeppy can perfectly picture him, the strained expression the man gets when he’s not sure if he’s ready to come clean. “Um. You have?”

“Yeah. It’s why I’m so tired.”

“Oh.” A pause, not long before: “I’m sorry.”

A bubble of laughter in disbelief. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I- I don’t know! It’s just what you say, Skeppy.”

Skeppy smiles into the phone; he wishes he could hit video chat right now, in this moment. He doesn’t care if Bad’s got a faceful of food; he wants to see him. “Can you turn on your camera?”

“What? No, I’m eating.”

“Please?”

A sigh, the clink of a fork being lowered. “Skeppy-”

“I’d come home right now, if I could.”

Skeppy’s mouth always has been quicker than his mind.

He can’t take it back, can’t deny the words that have spilled from his lips because they’re the _truth_ , a truth that is beating fiercely beneath his ribcage. Each shallow breath he takes in the silence that follows may be painful, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than a silence choked with words unsaid.

He thinks. He hopes.

“Skeppy,” Bad says finally, voice impossibly quiet. “You can’t do that.”

He knows. There’s so many reasons he can’t, so many reasons Skeppy is trapped in this empty bed for the rest of this week. To leave now would be unfair to his friends, who’ve been nothing but kind and looking forward to this for weeks. To leave now would be an admittance that he’s not strong enough to be without Bad for even a few days, and that’s not healthy – not remotely.

Worst of all, to leave now would be telling Bad that it’s _his fault_ , that Bad’s refusal to fly had ruined the trip for three people. It’s not the truth, not completely, but Skeppy knows Bad will take it that way.

So Skeppy breathes through his nose, unclenches his heart and sighs back: “I know. I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

_I wouldn’t do that to you._

“Okay.” Bad’s voice is still quiet, and Skeppy hasn’t heard him pick up the fork again. “If you really, really want- I can turn on my camera. Just for a little bit.”

Skeppy’s eyes flutter half-shut; it’s tempting. It’s so, so tempting to take him up on the offer. So rare to get the chance to treasure the few moments he gets of seeing Bad behind the lens of a camera. And part of him feels like he really needs that right now.

The other part, the part that had heard how closely Bad’s voice had teetered towards upset just moments ago – that part knows better.

“It’s okay.” Skeppy reaches up a hand to rub at his eyes again. “You don’t have to.”

“I still could. If you want me to.”

_I always want you to. I always want to look at you._

“Nah, it’s fine.” Skeppy replies, because it is. A pause, before: “Can you do something else for me, instead?”

“Um.” The cautious tone is back. “Maybe.”

Skeppy twists his fingers in his sheets, eyes clenching shut as he braces for the next words out of his mouth. “Can you tell me if you miss me?”

“What?” In his mind’s eye, Skeppy can see Bad blink. “Skeppy, I- _of course_ I miss you.”

“You do?” Prodding, desperately needing more.

“Well, yeah. Of course,” Bad repeats, half-breathless as he huffs a laugh. “I miss you every day, all the time.”

“Me too,” Skeppy murmurs. The ache is back, tight in his chest. A good kind of pain, if there ever was one. “It’s why I can’t sleep at night.”

“Me too,” Bad echoes, the admittance shooting warmth through Skeppy’s veins. “I just, I didn’t want you to worry or think you should come home. You sounded so happy, and I couldn’t- I didn’t come.”

“I didn’t want you to feel like that.” Skeppy can’t keep the tremble from his voice, not completely. “I didn’t want you to know how much I missed you. I was afraid you would think it was your fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Skeppy,” Bad huffs. “That doesn’t make sense.”

_Neither do we, sometimes._

“It doesn’t have to,” Skeppy says instead, and gets a sigh in reply. Before Bad can protest, he continues: “Can I ask for one more thing?”

“What?”

“Can you stay on the line?”

There’s a clink; Bad’s finally picked up his fork again. “I wasn’t going to hang up on you. Unless you’re about to say something rude.”

Skeppy smiles, even if Bad can’t see it. “No, I mean- that thing Karl and the rest do sometimes. Where they stay on the line all night.”

Bad makes a thoughtful hum through what sounds like a mouthful of food. A swallow, before: “You mean sleep call?”

“Yeah.” Skeppy settles deeper against his pillows. “That.”

“Sure. But…” More clinking. “I still have to eat dinner, first. And brush my teeth, and get ready for bed.”

“That’s okay.” Skeppy’s eyes are still shut, but the tension has begun bleeding out of his shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

“Should I mute up for chewing, at least?”

“No.” Skeppy shifts, snuggling beneath the blankets. A bleary glance at his phone confirms it’s still plugged into the wall port; thank God for four-foot charging cables. “I don’t care.”

“You’re sure?”

“I want to hear you.” The line is bold, but he’s finding he no longer cares. Skeppy simply closes his eyes again and tucks his chin; a pleasant fatigue is working its way through his limbs. “It’s fine, Bad. Just stay.”

“Okay.” Bad’s final word is fond, murmured gently in Skeppy’s ear. For a brief moment, Skeppy can almost feel the other’s breath on his cheek. “Go to sleep, Skeppy. I’ll be here.”

Skeppy hums a wordless thanks. The phone is warm against his cheek and each small sound issuing from the other end leaves a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

The bed is still empty; the silence in the rest of the room, deafening. But beneath the covers, with the sounds and promise of Bad in his ear – it’s alright. It’s enough.

“Goodnight, Bad.”

“Goodnight, Skeppy.” Skeppy can see the smile behind the words. “Sleep well.” Then softly, gently: “I love you.”

Skeppy smiles in the dark.

“Love you too.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sleep-call had helped.

Part of Skeppy had feared that after falling asleep with Bad in his ear, the pains of being apart would grow worse. Yet the moment had been lastingly cathartic, soothing in a way that had nestled comfortably in his heart and dimmed the near-constant prickles of longing in his veins. When he’d woken the next day, the line had still been going and he’d been able to hear the tiny, wheezy exhales Bad makes when he sleeps on his left side. Skeppy had lain there for several minutes, eyes closed and breaths coming and going in purposeful tandem with the sound of Bad’s own.

Then Vurb had knocked on their adjoining door and Skeppy had, with no small amount of groaning, ended the call and rolled out of bed.

That day had been better than the others. The combination of the extra hours peaceful of sleep under Skeppy’s belt coupled with Spifey’s _I wish for death_ hangover made for a slower, but still enjoyable sort of day. They’d passed what had been left of the morning in the hotel’s breakfast bar and the afternoon had led them down the city’s streets and ended at the beach. The crisp, salty wind had been pleasant in his lungs; the sand Vurb shoves down his shorts, less so. But it’d been nice spending the last few hours of light together, racing through the waves and collapsing in the sand to catch thoroughly-spent breath.

As Skeppy had lifted his neck to watch the last of the sun’s rays slip beneath the horizon, he’d been struck once again by the obvious; he missed Bad. His mind had instantly conjured the image it had spent the last few days so tenderly recreating over and over – Bad, sitting or lying beside him with their fingers intertwined. But the thought had lacked the sting of before and where painful longing once stood, a comfortable ache had taken its place.

As much as Skeppy wanted him to be, Bad hadn’t been there. But it felt alright to miss him now.

They end up sleep-calling for the rest of the nights. They don’t set up a schedule; sometimes Skeppy calls first, sometimes it’s Bad. Each call lasts hours, but every yawned remark of fatigue or gentle goodnight is never met with the tell-tale _vwoop_ of either disconnecting. Skeppy will find himself drifting off to the sound of Bad cooing to Rat and once, Skeppy had been detailing a new video idea in impressive depth when he’d heard Bad’s tiny little snores come through the line.

He’d teased Bad about it the next morning, shooting off texts while his friends were away at the breakfast bar. But even before the other’s rapid-fire profuse apologies and _promise_ that he’d been listening, Skeppy had found himself embarrassingly charmed.

 ** _dude, you don’t have to try and stay awake if you’re tired_** , he’d typed back, muffling his smile in the cuff of his hoodie.

 ** _But I like being with you_** , pops up a second later.

The slam of Skeppy’s head against the table had probably drawn a few curious gazes from the other patrons around him. He didn’t know. He hadn’t checked, hadn’t dared lift his head from being safely buried in his arms until the heat simmering in his cheeks had finally begun to fade.

And just like that, the rest of the week passes. Rides are ridden, pictures taken, friends named Vurb are beaten with whiffle bats and Skeppy – loves it. He still misses and wants and the thought of Bad right there beside them never really fades away. But he doesn’t hurt. Not like before, and never enough to draw the genuine smile off his face.

Still.

Still, still, still, it prickles. In the final morning as Skeppy packs his bags, it stirs. When he hugs his friends goodbye in the hotel lobby and fights off pinprick tears, it begins to simmer. When Skeppy passes his ticket over and steps onto the plane that will take him back, back to home and Rocco and **_Bad_** , the promise of _soon_ is boiling in his veins and sending electric shocks of anticipation into his twitching limbs.

On the flight back, the elderly woman next to him keeps peering over and asking if he has restless leg syndrome.

When the plane finally, finally touches down Skeppy is a ball of barely-contained energy. His phone is flipped on the moment he’s able; two messages await.

 ** _Have a safe flight, Skeppy!_** is accompanied with a picture of a sleeping Rat. Then: **_Let me know when you land!,_** with an **_owo_** tacked on at the end.

Skeppy barely pays attention to the other passengers shuffling around him, doesn’t even flinch when an overhead bag glances gently off his head. He sends off a quick text in reply.

**_just landed_ **

Almost immediately, a new message pops up. **_Good!!_** along with a slew of happy emoticons.

Skeppy ducks his head, hiding his painfully wide smile from any onlookers. ** _meet me at baggage??_** he types back hopefully.

There isn’t an immediate buzz-back this time which is – slightly disappointing. But Skeppy has to stand now anyway as his row begins getting out of their seats, so he shoves his phone in his pocket and resolves to wait for the vibrations to alert him.

It takes a while. Nothing while they’re slowly filing out of the plane. Nothing as they spill out into the airport lobby, as Skeppy shoots longing glances at couples and family alike embracing the arrivals. Nothing as Skeppy approaches baggage claim – and it’s starting to become worrisome. Skeppy’s already begun checking his phone multiple times, just to be sure. No missed vibration. No new texts.

Finally, the gnawing sense of worry wins over as Skeppy fires off a reluctant: **_bad?? u there?? im at baggage now_**

A minute later, his phone lights up in reply.

 ** _Okay!! I got confirmation from the Uber. He’s in a light blue Ford, it’s got soccer stickers on the back. He’ll keep circling until he sees you come out_** 😊

Disappointment rushes in like a wave as Skeppy stares in disbelief down at the screen. Sure, they hadn’t discussed it, but Skeppy had just _assumed_ Bad himself would be the one to get him from the airport. It’s not like the man is averse to driving here; he’d dropped Skeppy off himself.

 ** _u didn’t come to meet me?_** flies out from his fingertips, but Skeppy holds back on hitting send at the last second. He already knows the answer; Bad’s spelled it out letter by letter.

So he erases the message, types out: **_ok._** and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

Thanks to the stickers on the hub, the Uber is easy to pick out from the sea of cars swirling around the airport lot. The man who greets him is friendly enough, even offers to help load the bags. If he has anything to say about the stiff replies and hard set to Skeppy’s jaw, he doesn’t voice it.

The level of disappointment is unreasonable. Skeppy tells himself this over and over, drumming his fingers on his jittering leg as he stares out the car’s window. _Bad didn’t need to come get me,_ he assures himself. And it’s still true that Skeppy hadn’t asked, had left it on an assumption that has now somehow backfired on him. Bad’s just probably caught up in a stream or manhunt recording that he can’t get away from, and Skeppy’s the one sulking for no fucking reason.

It’s not like he’d had a plan, anyway. What would he have done, if Bad had been there? Dropped his bags to the floor, run into the other’s arms like some cliché movie moment? Gripped at him, kissed him and grabbed the unwanted attention of everyone in sight, regretted it the moment the photos landed on the internet?

Maybe.

 _No,_ he tells himself firmly. _You wouldn’t._ Which is probably true. Meeting Bad like that in public might have actually been painful. They wouldn’t have been able to talk, to touch like Skeppy currently wanted so much to the point of practically vibrating out of his skin. Bad would have probably offered a polite hello, Skeppy’s fingers would have twitched in longing and they’d have just walked to the car in tense, feigned disinterest instead of grabbing hold of the other.

Yes, part of Skeppy had entertained the return fantasy of pulling Bad out of sight in the parking garage, boxing him against the wall to kiss his best friend breathless and dazed and _stupid_ – but it’s unreasonable. It’s a reunion better suited for the privacy of their own home, no matter how deeply the image is driving Skeppy’s nails into his palm.

The car ride back to their place takes twenty-three minutes. Skeppy knows this precisely, because ‘counting the seconds’ is apparently more than just a figure of speech.

As Skeppy shoulders the last of his bags and the Uber honks its farewell, he does his best to – compose himself. Inhale calm, exhale the petty hurt and jittering nerves. After several seconds of breathing, Skeppy straightens his back and begins steadily scaling the steps up to their door.

It’s fine. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Be calm.

_Don’t be stupid._

The jingling of his keys alerts Rocco, judging by the loud _boofs_ on the other side of the door. Curiously, no Rat; her high-pitched shrieks usually overpower the deeper belts of his own dog, but there’s no shrill accompaniment this time. As the door opens, Skeppy confirms it; there’s a wagging fluffball jumping up to lick his face, but no miniature prima donna sniffing at his heels.

No Bad, either.

Skeppy swallows back a bitter taste as he refocuses on Rocco, kneeling down and aggressively rubbing his hands all over the dog’s head. Rocco spins, licks and _boofs_ at him in happiness. It’s enough to draw a true smile as he leans down to _boop_ Rocco’s nose with his own and gets a wet tongue across his nostrils in response.

“Blegh,” he informs the dog as he stands back up. “Gross.”

“Skeppy?”

_Oh._

Bad’s call rings through the room, sending a jolt up Skeppy’s spine as his fingers slacken. The bags slip from his grasp, tumbling to the floor to accompany the fleeting thought that maybe Skeppy _is_ a little bit of a pining movie cliché.

“Bad?” Skeppy calls back, searching for movement in the doorways; there’s a crack in his voice, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“In the living room,” comes the reply and Skeppy’s feet are already carrying him forward because Bad sounds different, Bad sounds _nervous_ and maybe, maybe Bad feels as electric as Skeppy does in this moment, maybe Bad is about to round the corner and throw himself in Skeppy’s arms, or maybe-

He’s sitting.

The image shouldn’t feel so insulting. It shouldn’t send an unpleasant lick of anger up his back to see Bad sitting on the couch, shooting him a nervous smile but otherwise looking completely – normal. There’s a blanket covering his legs and Rat curled in his lap and – really? Really? Bad hadn’t even _stood_ to greet him – why? For Rat? _Really?_

Skeppy does his best to mask disbelief as – anything else as Bad looks up at him with that same timid smile. The man’s hands are locked, fingers interlaced firmly with each other as he continues looking up at Skeppy, glancing away, then looking back. He’s visibly nervous but he’s not standing, not surging up to meet him, not bothering to come get him-

“Hi,” Bad says softly.

“Hey,” Skeppy echoes numbly.

“How was your trip?” Bad asks, hands breaking apart to pat the empty space on the couch beside him. Beckoning Skeppy over, expecting him to just sit there beside him, like this is normal, like nothing- nothing-

Skeppy sits. A hundred questions dance on the tip of his tongue but all of them feel far too angry, accusatory. Letting even a single one slip is going to raise his voice to shouting, he’s sure of it. So as Bad keeps looking at him with those disgustingly gentle eyes and nervous smile, Skeppy forces himself to bite out a: “Fine,” before turning his gaze away.

Even Rat looks unhappy. She’s giving Skeppy a disgruntled look, tension in her shoulders as they trade stares. Begrudging him for coming back, maybe. She’d always liked Bad’s undivided attention a little too much.

The feeling was mutual.

“That’s good,” Bad says, awkwardly kneading his fingers into the couch. “I’m glad.”

Skeppy doesn’t look up. He exhales, trying to steady his breath as he absently reaches over to give Rat a pet.

“Um,” Bad begins again, clearly thinking of what to say.

It ends up not mattering.

As Skeppy’s fingers brush the tip of Rat’s ear, she jerks her head away. It’s not completely new, familiar to his first few weeks with her but it’s been a while since he’s been snubbed so completely. With an irritable grumble and nothing short of a glare, she lifts herself from Bad’s lap and hops down – landing squarely on Bad’s blanket-covered feet.

Bad’s piercing cry is immediate, pain-drenched and heart-stopping. Rat bolts from the room in alarm as the man doubles over, gripping blindly at his legs. He squeezes out weak hiccups and hisses through gritted teeth while Skeppy recoils instinctively. It takes a moment for his brain to parse what’s just happened, and when his heart finally restarts it immediately sends a vicious bolt of panic through him that has Skeppy scrambling off the couch and reaching for the other.

“Bad-!”

A sharper hiss, warning off Skeppy’s fingers moments before they touch. As Skeppy pulls back, he can see Bad’s face is scrunched up, half-buried in the folds of the blanket as the man audibly stutters through his breaths.

_Breathe. Breathing is good. Breathe, focus, find out what went wrong._

Skeppy feels almost blind as he scans over Bad, trying to figure out the _why_ of Bad’s obvious pain. Bad is curled into himself, gripping at – his legs, legs, fingers near his feet but not touching, hovering over the – blanket, blanket that’s covering his feet while Bad is sitting and-

Not standing.

Not standing, not getting to his feet once. No rising to greet him. Not driving a familiar road. Sending another in his place.

The answer, half-realization and half-suspicion is rapidly overtaking Skeppy’s thoughts as he keeps his gaze trained on Bad’s legs. Slowly, vacantly he sees his fingers reach for the edge of the blanket. As they curl in the cloth, Bad lets out another pained sound.

“Ow,” he all but squeaks.

Skeppy’s movements are slow, methodical. He tugs on the blanket in short but firm motions, inching it off bit by bit until Bad’s hold suddenly tightens to bare the way. The other isn’t looking up, still hasn’t lifted his head from between his knees – but he knows. He’s resisting.

“Bad,” Skeppy hears his voice say. “Let me see.”

Hesitation. Bad’s fingers gripping tighter as another pained shudder wracks the man’s body.

“Bad.” His voice is firmer now; he knows. He’s sure he knows – not everything. But enough.

He needs to see.

Finally, Bad’s fingers start to slowly slacken even as his body tenses, bracing for the inevitable. Skeppy pulls the rest of the blanket off in one final tug, letting it pool at the ground below as the visible truth is laid bare.

Bad’s left ankle is wrapped in a brace.

In hindsight, bottling up his disappointment had been a mistake. It would have been better to let it out, even through text, that he wasn’t pleased with Bad’s absence. Maybe a quick call, something to smooth things over. He’s pretty sure that in this moment, this reveal, Bad would prefer calm Skeppy, doting Skeppy who is going to treat his wounded friend with gentle words and touch. Instead-

“ ** _What the FUCK!_** ” The words _explod_ e from Skeppy’s chest, all fire and a fury that’s gone too long contained; he’s on his feet in an instant, towering over the other man, who seems to be trying to make himself smaller by the second. “ ** _BAD!_** ”

“Skeppy,” Bad whines back, eyes pleading. “I-”

“ **When the _FUCK_! HOW the _FUCK_ -!**”

“Skeppy, it’s not that bad!!”

“ ** _NOT_** -” Bad has shrunken into a ball; the image is enough to get Skeppy to swallow back some of the anger, to drive his clenched fists up into his hair and farther out of sight. “ _YOU **BROKE** YOUR **ANKLE?!**_ ”

“No!” The correction is frantic, Bad lifting a hand as if to soothe. “It’s just-”

“ ** _JUST?_** ”

Bad swallows, a weak attempt at a smile on his face. “ _Not broken_ ,” he promises. “Just a small, itty bitty sprain. Okay?”

“Oka- _**NO!** Not-!_” Too much. Too angry. Skeppy’s hands lower from his hair to cover his face as he tries to calm down, tries to breathe through this wave of emotional whiplash that _fucking Bad_ is giving him. “Not- fucking hell, when?”

“Um,” Bad says in that tone, the one where Skeppy _knows_ he won’t like the answer. “While you were gone.”

“ ** _When_** , Bad?”

“Um,” Bad repeats, and Skeppy has to bite down on his tongue to keep from screaming. “Two… or three days ago.”

Nope. The screaming’s back.

“ ** _TWO OR THREE-?!_** ”

“It’s not that bad!”

“You can’t **_STAND!_** Did you even go to the hospital?!”

“Yes! I called my brother when it- look, it’s just a little sprain! It’s not a big deal!”

“Of course it’s a _big deal!_ You got _**hurt**! _You didn’t **_TELL_** me!”

“I didn’t want you to worry!”

“ ** _That doesn’t make it BETTER!!_** _”_

“ ** _You couldn’t have done anything from there!!_** _”_

Skeppy’s next retort dies on his lips; his seething gaze refocuses on the man before him. Bad’s expression is downright miserable, the first pinpricks of tears growing at the corner of the man’s eyes and the sight is enough to instantly sap the fury from Skeppy’s breath. The room quiets into unsettling stillness as Bad stares up at him with a quivering lip before looking away, drawing into himself on the couch.

It’s easy to get lost when the fire’s roaring in his ears. When doubt and disappointment clouds his gaze, sometimes it makes Skeppy forget the most important truth between them.

Bad never, ever means to hurt him.

Even if Bad won’t look at him, Skeppy can’t take his gaze away – doesn’t dare. Bad’s visible unhappiness is a weight on his chest that he needs right now to keep him grounded, focused. He lowers himself to the couch almost unconsciously; his fingers twitch at his side. He wants to reach out, wants to touch and comfort until he can feel the return of Bad’s soft, wonderful smile against his lips.

Isn’t that what he’d wanted from the start?

The realization brings an unbidden sound to his throat. It’s a laugh - the beginnings of one, tiny and strangled with frustration and disbelief. Yet still it grows stronger, hysterical giggles bubbling out until Skeppy’s chest is heaving with them. The shrill noises are enough to make Bad cautiously look his way and Skeppy has to bury his face in his hands again to smother the sounds.

“Skeppy?” Bad’s voice is quiet, almost fearful.

“This is so fucking stupid.” Somewhere between the screaming, Skeppy’s voice has gone hoarse.

“I’m sorry.”

Skeppy breathes in through his nose, exhales through his mouth. His breath his hot, fouled from the long trip. The sensation may be unpleasant, but it centers him.

_Breathe._

“All this time,” Skeppy begins, words slow and careful. “All this trip, I kept. Thinking about coming back home.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology is immediate, pained.

“I thought about it so much,” Skeppy continues. “Seeing you again. I wanted it, you, so bad. Then when I get here-”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just… yell at you.” Skeppy clenches his fingers into his cheeks, another wild giggle slipping past his lips. “You got hurt… and I _yelled_ at you for it. What the fuck?”

Bad shifts beside him. “I should have told you when it happened.” It’s quiet, guilt-ridden and ended with a sniff. Bad sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, and Skeppy’s never hated himself more. “I’m sorry,” Bad repeats. “I didn’t want-”

“Don’t apologize,” Skeppy whispers. “Please.”

Silence falls between them again, save for Skeppy’s heavy breathing and Bad’s occasional sniffle.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

_Say it. You have to. You fucked this up. You’ve done this before, let this feeling win. You hurt him._

_He deserves better._

“I missed you so fucking much,” Skeppy murmurs into his hands. “I was hurt when you didn’t pick me up. I wanted to see you as soon as possible, and I got pissed when I couldn’t.” A swallow, thick and painful. “ _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t know.”

Another sniff. “It’s my fault. I didn’t tell you. I was afraid you’d worry and not enjoy your trip like you should.” Bad shifts on the couch again, the movement jostling the cushions. “I didn’t want to be another reason for that, and I thought I could tell you when you got home. But I knew you were upset I didn’t come, and when I saw you I didn’t know how to say-”

“You knew?” Skeppy interrupts hoarsely. “How?”

“Um. The text. You, um, only use periods at the end when you’re mad at me.”

In spite of everything, Skeppy feels his lips twitch in a smile. Of course Bad would notice that.

Skeppy sighs, low and slow; it feels like letting go. Not entirely, not in one fell swoop – but bit by bit, the _everything_ of the situation starts to slip from his shoulders. He feels like he’s been wound too tight, too long and only now is he starting to uncoil. He flicks his tongue over dry lips before asking:

“Can I do this over?”

He can’t see Bad from his position, but he’s not ready to look. Not just yet.

“What do you mean?” comes the quiet reply.

“Just…” Skeppy flexes his fingers. “I want to start over. Walk back into the room and try again.”

“Oh.” Bad clears his throat. “Um. Okay.”

“Okay,” Skeppy echoes, and gets to his feet.

His steps carry him back to the door. His bags are still there, strewn across the ground haphazardly. Rocco is laying across his backpack with a chin tucked over the straps. As Skeppy approaches, Rocco lifts his head and gives a friendly wag in greeting.

“Hey buddy,” Skeppy whispers, crouching down to eye level. There’s another lick to his cheek and a probing sniff as Rocco examines him. Looking for the cause of the tears that had threatened to spill down Skeppy’s chin, perhaps.

Skeppy lowers his forehead until it’s buried against Rocco’s stomach. The fur tickles his nose as Rocco continues looking him over, snuffling at his hair as Skeppy lets out another long sigh.

“He deserves better,” he murmurs. With a loud snort, Rocco seems to agree.

Skeppy stands, pivoting on his heels to face the living room entrance once more.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

_Try again. He’ll let you, as many times as you need._

As Skeppy steps into the living room, the familiar sight greets him. Bad, sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and care written into his expression. No Rat this time, no bulky blanket to hide away the uncomfortable truth. Just Bad, brave and kind and hurt.

_Do better._

“Hey, Bad,” Skeppy says softly. The smile on his lips is small, but it feels – real. “I’m home.”

“Hi.” Bad smiles back, just as tentative. “Welcome back.”

Skeppy crosses the room with measured steps, settling into the couch beside Bad. Just as before, just like mere minutes ago. But there’s no anger this time, just quiet and the spark of longing at feeling Bad’s gaze upon him.

_Gently, now._

With a careful glance, Skeppy reaches to brush the tips of his fingers over Bad’s knuckles. The other tenses, just for a moment – and then he’s uncurling his fist, flipping it over and splaying out his hand. Skeppy sucks in a breath as he slowly presses his palm against Bad’s and feels their fingers intertwine in a practiced motion.

He can feel Bad’s heartbeat like this, just barely. It’s quickened, nervous and cautious; still, Bad doesn’t pull away. Their fingers clench and relax, squeezing together before releasing. Skeppy’s eyelids flutter half-shut.

He’d fucking missed this so much.

“How was your trip?” The soft query floats through the silence, bringing Skeppy’s attention back up. Bad is watching him; some of the caution has bled away, but Skeppy can still see the half-dried tracks of a few spilled tears down the other’s chin. His fault, his fuck-up, his mess to fix.

“It was fun,” Skeppy murmurs back. Another squeeze, a stroke of his thumb over Bad’s own. “I had a good time.”

“I’m glad.” A smile as Bad’s gaze softens further. “I hoped you would.”

Skeppy swallows, eyes beginning to lid again as he concentrates on the warmth of Bad’s hand in his own. “Are you… okay?”

“Mhm. I had a little fall, but I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Skeppy nods, eyes fully closing with the motion. “That’s good. I’m – glad you told me.”

“I should have sooner.” Another squeeze. “I tried to hide it, and I shouldn’t have. But I’ll make sure to tell you when it happens, next time.”

“What, you’re planning on a next time?” Skeppy quips, delighted at the small chuckle he gets from Bad in return.

“No,” Bad huffs, and Skeppy can hear the smile in his voice. “But just in case. It’s a very little sprain, and it should be better in a week. My brother helped me around the house for the first day.” A firm, tight hold before relaxing again. “But now you’re here.”

It’s Skeppy’s turn to smother a giggle now. “Oh no. _I’m_ going to be in charge of _all_ the housework?”

“Mhm.” Bad’s shifting, scooting in a little closer; Skeppy’s breath catches as he feels a palm gently cup his cheek. “Try not to burn the place down when you do laundry.”

Skeppy wants to laugh. It’s fitting, it’s funny but the way Bad’s thumb is stroking down his cheek is stuttering his lungs and clouding his thoughts. He manages to get out a: “No promises,” before leaning deeper into the touch, earning an amused hum in return.

For what doesn’t feel like long enough, Skeppy just – sits there. Letting Bad caress his cheek, rubbing his face against a welcoming palm as the hands still holding one another squeeze and release over and over. It’s not what his return fantasies had been like; there’s no pinning Bad under him or crowding him up against the nearest surface. There’s no desperate grip in his hair, or arms looped around his neck to deepen their kissing. No driving need to dig his marks into Bad’s skin, to stake his claim and make up for all the time spent apart. It’s just- just-

Touch. Touch, soft and gentle, a warmth against his palm, his cheek. It’s slow breaths from calmed hearts and what seems like mutual forgiveness, gone unsaid.

It feels wonderful.

When Skeppy finally half-opens his eyes, Bad is still looking at him. The man’s own gaze is lidded, a tired sort of happiness written into his expression. Skeppy nuzzles back against his palm, turning his face to kiss at the base of Bad’s thumb. “I missed you,” he whispers against skin.

Bad leans closer, filling the space between them to press a kiss against Skeppy’s forehead. “I missed you more.”

Skeppy smiles at the sensation, heart fluttering in his chest. “Impossible,” he murmurs back, tilting his head to kiss at the curve of Bad’s neck and ends with a quick nip to his earlobe.

Bad tries to mask his squeak with a sigh, pulling his hand free from their embrace to cup both his palms against Skeppy’s cheeks. He holds the other’s head still, momentarily denying wandering lips as he purposefully meets Skeppy’s lidded gaze with his own. “Skeppy-” he begins.

Upon reflection, it might have been something important. It hadn’t felt like it, in that moment. It had felt interruptible, minute compared to how _drunk_ Skeppy had felt on Bad’s touch. He’d been, in his hazy state, ridiculously focused on the way Bad’s lips purse and part as he speaks - on how soft and plush they looked, on the way Bad wets them with his tongue.

So, maybe Skeppy hadn’t really been listening when he’d leaned in to finally, finally, **_finally_** kiss Bad like he’d been _aching_ to, like the other _deserved_.

But whatever Bad hadn’t been about to say, it hadn’t been enough to stop him from kissing back.

They fall together messily; it’s inevitable, at this point. With the emotional dam broken and permission sung in gasped breaths, Skeppy is on Bad like a man starved, desperate for more touch, more kiss, more _Bad_. Scrabbling fingers find purchase wherever they can on the couch, Bad’s shoulders, the back of Skeppy’s head. It’s too much and not enough, it’s a week of longing for the other’s gentle embrace finally being satisfied all too roughly. That won’t do - not when Skeppy has plans to _savor_ this.

Still. With the ferocity Bad is kissing back, Skeppy has time to delightedly realize Bad may be just as hungry as he is.

In his head, he knows he has to handle Bad delicately right now. But the knowledge doesn’t stop the want, **_need_** to have the other against him. Whether the other is caught beneath him or lying atop doesn’t matter, he just – needs to feel Bad’s heartbeat, touch, warmth. Everywhere. _Now_.

At some point he must have muttered it aloud or at least given Bad the picture, because bit by bit they manage to shift. Bad carefully lifts his leg up and onto the coffee table, allowing himself to lie flat at an angle while Skeppy covers him, buries himself in the crook of Bad’s neck to inhale the scent of sweat and Rat and _Bad_ until impatient, demanding noises bring him up and back to sliding his lips against Bad’s.

It takes a while. An embarrassingly long time, really, for their kisses to eventually slow long enough to let Skeppy _breathe_. The touches gentle and their lips finally slip apart to allow hot breaths to mingle and waft over each other’s faces. Part of Skeppy regrets not brushing his teeth on the plane, but the pleased, glazed over look Bad is giving him offers no complaints as he lazily traces a finger over the shell of Skeppy’s ear.

“I love you, Bad,” Skeppy rasps, feeling open, revealed and _raw_.

Bad giggles back, bubbly and adoring and _perfect_.

Skeppy’s missed this so fucking much.

\---

It takes hours before they finally pry themselves apart. Some of the time had been whiled away, admittedly, through more kissing. Some had just been laying together, holding the other as they played with each other’s hair and recounted the events of their days apart. Some had just been spent on an accidental nap, Skeppy lulled to sleep atop Bad’s chest to catch up on the edges of jet lag as the other held him close through it all.

Regardless, by the time Skeppy rolls off Bad there’s encrusted drool on his face and a sticky sheen of sweat on his skin that had warranted a good shower three hours ago.

Not like it hadn’t been worth it, though.

Bad stays on the couch, typing up a DoorDash order as Skeppy slinks his way over to his bedroom with a barely suppressed yawn. When he nudges open the door, he’s momentarily surprised to find his room is – clean. Cleaner than he’d left it, for sure; when Skeppy had rushed out the door there’d been rejected clothes strewn everywhere and definitely a dirty dish or two he’d thought of on the plane. Now, everything’s been put in order; even the bedsheets look crisp, tucked with a level of care that Skeppy’s never put into bedmaking in his life.

His heart pangs fondly at the realization. Bad, being overly thoughtful once again.

With a smile on his face and another muffled yawn, Skeppy begins pulling off his shirt and kicking his pants to the ground. Balling them up in his fist, his nudges open the laundry basket and is about to drop them in – when he takes notice of something strange.

The sleeve of something baby blue is sticking up from the laundry.

Normally, this wouldn’t be any cause for a pause – but Skeppy doesn’t own anything baby blue. He sticks to pleasing blacks and whites, deep navy for jeans and some darker browns for his coats; nothing he owns is baby blue, though.

Curious, he reaches in and takes hold of the cuff; after three good tugs, he pulls the garment free and holds it aloft in the air.

It’s a Skeppy hoodie.

Specifically, it’s a baby blue hoodie with his Minecraft skin’s face emblazoned on the hood. Which is, again, bizarre because Skeppy doesn’t actually _own_ much of his merch. He’d gotten a few samples sent from the company over the years but advertising himself ON himself had rarely been something he wanted in his daily life. Skeppy doesn’t remember keeping this version of his hoodies through the move, and judging by the mild wear and tear on it it’s likely a couple years old to boot.

So he stands there, puzzling it out for way longer than he should have when it finally occurs to him.

It’s Bad’s.

The memory comes rushing back; Bad wearing a hoodie, this hoodie as Skeppy giggled and coaxed him through the shaving stream. Bad, pulling the hood as far as it could go over his head and zipping up to his chin to hide his thoroughly embarrassed face. It’s so obvious on reflection, but Skeppy just hadn’t expected him to-

Keep it? It’s not like it’s Bad’s own merch, that the other likes to wear proudly around the house. It’s a memento of something that had gotten them a lot of views, but still something Skeppy had teased him into. It’s comfortable material, yes, but…

It’s just so _worn_. The hoodie has clearly been through several washings and day to day use. As Skeppy lifts the collar to give an examining sniff, he confirms through the familiar scent of sweat that it’s been donned recently - and a lot.

_Why?_

He - thinks he knows the answer. Skeppy knows what he _wants_ to think at least, what image his mind is eagerly pushing to the forefront of his thoughts.

Bad, missing him, wearing Skeppy’s hoodie around the house during their week apart.

Skeppy refuses the heat darkening his cheeks, scolds his heart for accelerating in his chest. As if seeking a way to distract himself, he gives the hoodie another sniff – seeking out some new clue that would prove his mind’s wistful conclusion otherwise.

Wait.

Another sniff, brow furrowed. There’s another smell, sharper than the rest. It sticks out in its familiarity; he can’t place it just yet. It’s… minty.

_Mouthwash._

Bad’s mouthwash, specifically. Skeppy knows the smell, knows the taste on his lips from when Bad kisses him goodnight. But Bad only brushes his teeth once he’s changed into his pajamas; he’s got a routine down pat that Skeppy has observed night and night again. He always wears the clothes he’s going to sleep in before brushing his teeth, claims it helps him remember to do it. He’s never deviated before, so why-?

Another thought crosses his mind.

It’s ludicrous. It’s ridiculous, unfathomable – something conjured by a mind still high on Bad’s touch after too long an absence. His thoughts are playing tricks on him, he reasons, as his eyes scan over a bed with sheets that are pressed so neatly, so nicely that it’s downright _suspicious_.

_There’s just no fucking way._

Skeppy finds himself moving to the side of the bed anyway. He reaches for the left pillow, the one Bad always uses and brings it up to his face. He bites his lip, half praying he’s wrong as his mind screams the possibility that he’s not.

He sniffs the linen. The smell of mint is there, sharp and damning because it is _fresh_.

Bad’s been sleeping in his bed.

During their time apart, Bad’s been sleeping in his bed. Bad’s been sleeping in his bed, _in a Skeppy hoodie_ , and has made up the sheets to cover his tracks.

After several long moments of standing and staring and swaying on his feet, Skeppy tips forward and falls face-first onto the bed. He blindly grabs for the pillow, brings it up to his face and muffles what might have been the loudest scream of his life.

Infuriatingly smug, Skeppy’s mind pulls up the last thing Bad had said before kisses and touch had wiped all coherent thought away.

_I missed you more._

It had been nothing more than a gentle remark, half a taunt in the moment – but now, _but now_ the memory is playing over and over, singing in Skeppy’s ears. He can’t stop it, doesn’t dare to try and silence it as Skeppy squeezes his eyes shut and exhales a great, shuddering sigh.

The ache in his chest is back.


	5. Chapter 5

Skeppy’s not that good with housework.

He is, to his credit, good at a lot of things. He’s creative, he’s athletic and he’s no stranger to adapting to unfamiliar situations. He’s not lazy - except when he is - but he’s never one to back down from a real challenge when it rears its head. He’s also not completely inexperienced at taking care of himself; he’s lived alone before, he knows how to buy his own shampoo and make his pet’s meals unlike _certain_ people within their friend group.

He’s just not, y’know, great at it.

Part of it comes with a lack of experience that he blames on the extra years Bad has on him, years spent honing self-care and independence that Skeppy’s still arguably on the cusp of. Bad just _knows_ things Skeppy doesn’t remember or his brain can’t be bothered to keep around. So, maybe Skeppy forgets how many cups of detergent to put in the dishwasher, or sort of wings it when sorting the lights from the darks. It’s hard for him to keep track of every little tip and trick for upkeeping a good home, and he’s taking care of two people now to boot. Still, he hasn’t burned down the house yet - no matter how Bad might joke otherwise – so it’s fine.

It’s not like he’s actually alone, either. Bad might be hobbled by his injury, but he still pitches in where he can and leaves sticky notes for Skeppy to work off of later. Little details scribbled in far too neat handwriting list out the best temperatures for cooking, which cleaners to use in the bathroom, even how to reset the Roomba. The one that had read **_Make sure to turn the oven off after you’re done!_** had been a little insulting, but Skeppy had let it lie.

Honestly, he’d only forgotten twice. It wasn’t _that_ big a deal.

Skeppy’s got plenty of time to improve, anyway. He wished he’d been surprised when, upon ferrying Bad to his latest appointment, he’d learned that the man had been exaggerating his recovery period – but he hadn’t been. Not remotely.

“Two more weeks off your feet,” the doctor had said over the top of her clipboard, scribbling something out. “At the very least.”

“Huh,” Skeppy had drawled, folding his arms and sending a look Bad’s way. “I thought it was minor?”

“It is,” the doctor had confirmed. “But even a mild sprain can take that long to heal.”

“Funny. He’d claimed one week should do it.”

Bad had cleared his throat to meekly reply: “I read one week was possible.”

“Off what, WebMD?”

Bad’s quickly averted gaze had given the _yes_ his lips wouldn’t.

“Another two weeks,” the doctor had repeated, tearing off a piece of her prescription pad and holding it out to the pair of them. “And take these for any swelling.”

The exposition had led to more bickering as Skeppy drove them home, but none of it had darkened beyond their usual banter. Skeppy hadn’t been willing to hold back from lightly roasting Bad for once again lying to him, but it’s based in more of a fib and the circumstances regarding the incident were – touchy. Bad had softened the initial blow with obvious purpose and Skeppy hadn’t been willing to press too hard when he already knew the _why_.

“Three weeks isn’t that big a deal,” Skeppy had hummed, tapping the steering wheel as the red light had stared unblinkingly back. “You don’t need to rush yourself.”

“It won’t take that long.” Bad had been fidgeting in his seat, visibly restless. “They just want to make sure I don’t sue them for saying otherwise.”

“It’s going to take that long, Bad.”

“It will _not_.”

“It will,” Skeppy had retorted. “And _you_ will take it easy the entire time or I’ll tie you to the couch myself.

Bad had whined, putting up a slew of protests that Skeppy’d tuned out as the light turns green and his focus had went back to the road. As much as he liked having his friend up and about and as much as Skeppy hates scrubbing all the dishes by himself, Bad’s health came first. Three weeks really isn’t that long, anyway.

Three weeks is less than what he’s planning for, anyway.

After their fight, after realizing in the middle of his bedroom that Bad had been possibly pining away in Skeppy’s merch, in Skeppy’s bed – it had made him stop and think. A lot. Even when he’d pulled his face out of the pillow and wrapped himself in a bathrobe, when he’d trundled to the shower and scrubbed his body clean of the grime of travel – he’d been thinking. He hadn’t stopped thinking, really; even when night had firmly fallen and Bad had been wrapped up in his arms and sound asleep on his chest, Skeppy had still been lost in thought.

His thoughts on the matter are never exactly concrete. They’re nebulous, flighty things that half-form before skittering away into deeper recesses where Skeppy can’t quite puzzle them out.

Some he’d managed to grab hold of only to discard, like the idea of showing the dirtied hoodie to Bad. It had been one of his first, more impulsive thoughts – but it hadn’t been the right one. In that moment the peace between them had been too tenuous, too delicately woven to touch upon a subject that Bad had clearly tried to avoid. Skeppy had known even then, sprawled dazed and aching on his bed, that the only response he’d have gotten would have been immediate denial and shame that would have widened their divide.

And Skeppy doesn’t actually _know_. Not for certain, not past the deniable stages. It’s a theory based in what could be facts and judging by their online battles over height claims, Bad can deny reality for years unless trapped by irrefutable evidence.

So he’d put that notion aside and kept searching for something better to satisfy this new itch beneath his skin. Something subtle, with deniable undertones that would still give him what he wanted – even if he’s not a hundred percent clear on what that is. It’s got something to do with visibly seeing Bad in his hoodie; Skeppy’s pretty sure about that, at least.

Somewhere along the way when recalling the worn state of the garment, Skeppy had had a thought. He’d pushed it away initially, dismissing it as too much too soon. But it had kept popping up, resurfacing like a bobber in the turbulent waters of his mind until he’d finally, finally sat down and examined it properly.

He could get Bad a newer hoodie.

The idea isn’t subtle but the execution – could be. Skeppy had trawled through his own merch site endlessly as he’d ruminated on the possibilities, going over which to get and how to present it. Getting Bad to accept the merch without giving up the _why_ would be difficult; still, Skeppy is creative when it comes to coaxing Bad into something. Skeppy’s tricked his friend over and over again to massive success, so what’s one more in the name of friendship and… confirming a theory?

It takes some planning. There’d been a lot of rejected _when_ ’s and _where_ ’s and _how_ ’s until Skeppy had finally settled on three that seemed the most likely to bring him success.

When – no less than three days after his return. Skeppy needs time for the laundry to be done, to bury the hoodie in a pile of Bad’s clean clothes and give off the illusion he hadn’t noticed it.

Where – the couch. It’s not original, but it’s a safe space for them. Comfortable and close enough to lull Bad towards drowsiness, but without the risk of the other drifting off into full sleep. Perfect for scrolling his phone like any other night and pretending like he wasn’t watching Bad’s mood like a hawk.

The How brings him back to the now. With their mutual recording time finished and the sun already slipping out of sight, the two of them are now slumped ungracefully together on the couch. Skeppy’s sprawled against the armrest and Bad’s head is resting on his thigh; they’re both doing their best to stay awake, but Skeppy can tell Bad’s already on the cusp of dozing. The television’s running through some anime Bad’s been binging all week, but the man’s vacant and half-lidded gaze can’t be watching the subtitles effectively. A small yawn and the feeling of Bad snuggling in closer confirms Skeppy’s suspicions while gently warming his heart.

Time to strike.

Skeppy makes sure to set the stage, pulling up his email and pretending to thumb through it. When he’s settled on something that looks marginally official from a distance, Skeppy squares his shoulders, takes in a breath and remarks:

“Hm.”

Bad doesn’t respond. There’s a quiet sigh that follows but nothing officially counting as a reply. Interest has not been grabbed yet, but that’s fine. It’s workable.

“Mmm,” Skeppy hums again. “Hey Bad?”

A murmur of acknowledgement laced with mild discontentment – seems Bad is a little sleepier than Skeppy thought.

_Still fine. Push through it._

“Want to be a product tester?”

That’s enough to earn him a blink as Bad turns to peer sleepily up at him. “Huh?”

Skeppy nods his head towards his phone, expression casual. “They’re asking to swap out the material for some of my merch.” The lie comes easily; it’s been practiced, over and over in his head. “They’re trying to change suppliers. Offered to send some samples of the new line, so I could make sure it’s not gonna dip in quality.”

“Oh.” Bad blinks again, long and hard as if to try and refocus his eyes. “Um. Wait, what do you want me to do?”

_Easy now. Don’t spook him._

Skeppy gives a nonchalant shrug. “Just looking for your opinion. I can tell them to send one in your size too, so you can try it out. Help me make sure they’re not trying to cheap out or something.”

Bad yawns, eyes shutting again as he stretches out his good leg; Skeppy holds his breath, waiting for a response to follow. There’s some kind of sound, but nothing intelligible.

When there’s no further remark and Bad’s settled back down again, Skeppy waits three point five seconds before querying: “So yeah?”

“Yeah what?” Bad mutters, and Skeppy has to hold back the eye roll. Serves him right for trying this while Bad’s zoned out.

“Yeah, I can order you one of the merch samples to review?”

“Oh. Ummmm…” Bad hums quietly to himself, before replying: “If you’re getting sent one, couldn’t I just try that?”

Skeppy’s fingers twitch – damn. Not sleepy enough for that to slip by.

_Steady. You were ready for this. You know what to do._

“I guess.” Skeppy sets down his phone on the armrest, training his gaze towards the ceiling. A casual glance, disaffected – like he hasn’t calculated his next words for days.

The button he’s about to press is guaranteed a reaction; he just hopes it’s the one he needs.

“But,” Skeppy continues, stretching his arms above his head, “my size would be _way_ too big for you.”

It’s _so_ hard to bite back a grin when Bad _immediately_ surges upwards; it’s so, **_so_** hard to keep his expression only mildly amused at the clear affront written all over Bad’s face. The other man gapes, then scowls at him before retorting: “It would _not_. That’s not funny, Skeppy.”

It’s _very_ funny.

“I’m just saying,” Skeppy replies, and the grin overtakes him as Bad jabs a finger in his chest.

“They would fit! You’re not even tal- you’re not bigger than me!”

“ _Well_ …” Skeppy drawls.

Bad huffs, pushing himself up to scoot several inches away from Skeppy on the couch. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Well…” Skeppy repeats, clucking his tongue and making a show of it - because this is easy. This is familiar, the teasing and back and forth. It’ll look natural, because it is, even if his next words have been planned. “Okay. I’ll ask for my size. If it fits you, it fits. If it doesn’t, I’ll keep it.”

Bad folds his arms, trying to keep his visible pout masked as a scowl. “If anything, it’ll be too small.” Then, tacked on with a mutter: “Shrimpy.”

“ _You’re_ too small,” Skeppy sings back and gets a pillow thrown in his face in reply.

\---

Almost a week goes by, and little changes. Skeppy does his best to seem normal and tries to put the package out of his mind. Bad will get suspicious if he gets too jittery, so Skeppy hunkers down into routine and attempted normalcy. He meticulously records videos, cleans the house and does his absolute best to not visibly perk up when the mail arrives.

It’d been too soon, anyway. He’d snuck in the order that same night, once he’d thoroughly kissed Bad’s pout away and managed to sneak his phone off to the bathroom. Hunkered in privacy, Skeppy had hit all the express shipping options available, taken every extra charge there was - but the soonest quoted date had still been Thursday.

It’s Friday now, and all of Skeppy’s mental energy is going into keeping his leg from rapidly bouncing in place. He and Bad are seated at the lunch table; Bad’s obliviously absorbed in a new book and Skeppy has given up on pretending to eat his lunch. He’s got no appetite; he won’t get it back until after the mail’s arrived and potentially disappointed him, going by yesterday’s events.

It’s ridiculous to be this excited. The part of him trying to keep calm reminds him that it’s the normal thrill that comes from a good tease, a familiar exhilaration of setting something up on Bad when the other doesn’t see it coming.

Another part tries to paint images in his mind, pulling up what Bad could, would look like when trying on his hoodie and maybe, _just_ _maybe_ wearing it where Skeppy could see him in it. The thought of Bad wandering around the house, yawning and stretching, looking up at Skeppy with brilliantly green eyes offset by soft baby blue cloth-

Skeppy does his best to ignore those thoughts. He’s got a feeling nothing good will come of it.

The doorbell rings and Skeppy has to bite down on his cheek to stop from jumping to his feet. Bad’s barely taken notice but the dogs are already off, barking up a storm to ward off the potential intruder. Skeppy waits, counting out the seconds as Rat’s yapping fills his ears before he remarks: “Mail’s here,” and pushes himself up from the table.

Bad grunts, too absorbed to notice Skeppy stiffly heading towards the foyer.

The mailman’s long gone but Skeppy still has to repeatedly toe Rat and Rocco away from the door in order to slip outside. When he finally inches out onto the doorstep, there’s a handful of envelopes waiting for them, piled high atop-

A package.

Skeppy’s heart sings at the sight. His fingers tremble with excitement as he reaches down to grab it; a quick scan confirms the return address and more importantly, the contents.

It’s the hoodie.

Skeppy takes in a steadying breath, willing the shivers of excitement to still before squaring his shoulders and heading back inside.

The dogs give curious sniffs as he re-enters, Rocco circling around his heels and following him back towards the dining area. Skeppy isn’t sure if they can smell it through the package – new merch always smells a little funny – but regardless, he shoos Rocco away towards the living room before settling back down at the table.

_Calm. Play it cool._

Bad glances at him as Skeppy sits. “Anything good?”

Skeppy picks up the envelopes first, just in case. He flips through them, barely scanning as he replies: “Bills and junk mail. Unless you’ve started subscribing to Victoria’s Secret?”

“Oh, definitely,” Bad drawls, returning his gaze to his book. “I thought you’d look nice in their thigh-highs.”

Skeppy sputters and half-chokes on the laugh startled out of him. Sometimes he forgets Bad can just pull the rug out from under him without even blinking; still, it’s worth it to see the small smile on Bad’s lips.

“Oo-kay,” Skeppy huffs through a grin, shaking his head and trying to refocus. He picks up the package, making a show of scanning the label as if he hadn’t done so before. “Hmm. Speaking of clothes, looks like the merch arrived.”

Bad hums in acknowledgement. “That was quick.”

Rather than reply, Skeppy simply slides the package over until it bumps against Bad’s book. It earns him a confused glance, then a perk of Bad’s brow.

“What, right now?”

Skeppy blinks innocently back. “Why not?”

“Skeppy, I’m in the middle of something.”

“Oh, okay.” Skeppy clicks his tongue, slowly sliding the package back. “I mean, I can try it on first. Stretch it out so you look _even smaller_ -”

“Oh my goodness, _fine_.” Bad snaps the book shut, reaching over to grab his crutches. Once risen from his seat, he leans to grab the package and warns: “This better not be some dumb glitter bomb or something.”

“No, but I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Skeppy grins as Bad rolls his eyes and hobbles off towards the bedroom. There’s the sound of a door shutting as Skeppy puts his feet up, folds his fingers together and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Oh, _COME ON!_ ”

Bad’s angry cry rings through the hall and Skeppy’s brow instantly furrows because that – had not been an expected reaction. With an uncertain glance in the direction Bad had left, Skeppy pushes himself to his feet and heads after him.

“Bad?” he calls, stopping just before the shut door. “You okay?” Then, sparked by concern: “Did you fall?”

“Did I- no, I didn’t _fall_!” Bad’s voice is muffled, but he sounds pissed. “You told me you ordered this for you!”

Skeppy blinks, head recoiling slightly. “What?” His unease deepens, and he raps his knuckles on the door in wordless request. “Dude, seriously, you okay? Is something wrong with it?”

An irritated growl can just barely be heard in reply. There’s a rustling noise, some grunts of exertion. The familiar sound of Bad’s crutches being moved across the carpet before: “Skeppy, you’re such a liar.”

Skeppy can hear Bad’s pout through the door, but nothing that gives him answers. With a shake of his head, he warns: “I’m coming in.” He waits out three seconds, but Bad doesn’t refuse, so Skeppy turns the knob and pulls open the door.

It’d been a good idea, holding onto the knob. It helps keep him in place, keeps him upright when the air leaves Skeppy’s lungs and he forgets to breathe it back in.

Bad is, as he’d suspected, pouting. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the man’s brow is furrowed as he stares Skeppy down because he is- he is dwarfed, he is _swimming_ in baby blue cloth. The hoodie is enormous and – and it’s a mistake, it has to be a mistake because there’s no way this is the Medium Skeppy had ordered, there’s no way it’s anything less than an XXL by the way it extends to Bad’s knees and the sheer sight of it is making Skeppy’s own start to buckle. Bad is _swallowed up_ , the sleeves drooping and flopping without form as Bad lifts an arm to point accusingly in Skeppy’s direction.

“This is NOT your size,” Bad huffs, flapping both arms in gesture. The sleeves flail wildly with the motion and Skeppy feels his eyes momentarily unfocus.

It’s too much.

It’s way too much, it’s a mistake, it isn’t what he’d intended and every cell in his body is electric with an emotion he can’t, doesn’t _dare_ name. His mind is blank and full all at once, fingers twitching and clenching and breath restarting in short, soundless gasps. He’s got to do something, something more than fervently thank and curse whatever he’d done to deserve this as Bad looks him over with growing curiosity.

“Skeppy?”

There’s movement. Footsteps that Skeppy only belatedly realizes are his own as the sheer _sight_ of Bad grows closer in his vision. As Bad’s look of wariness grows, Skeppy finds himself – kneeling? Kneeling down until he’s at eye level with Bad’s neck, kneeling as his arms reach out to loop around the man’s waist. Skeppy hasn’t even parsed the why until he finds his face is burying itself in the other’s chest as he begins to lean and gently, _gently_ push forward.

“Wh- _hey_!” Bad exclaims as Skeppy starts to tip him until they’re falling, until Bad’s back hits the mattress with the smallest bounce with Skeppy still clinging on top of him. There’s a huff and what feels like a sleeve swatting at the back of his head but Skeppy does not care, has _never_ cared less as he continues burying and rubbing his face against Bad’s chest. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and inhales the scent of stale, factory-pressed cloth.

It’s soft. It’s so, so soft and it’s _huge_ and Bad is- is-

“Skeppy?” A hand on his head, still dwarfed by the sleeve and _oh_ , Skeppy’s heart sings at the image. “Skeppy, are you okay?”

“Bad,” he croaks feebly. He already sounds hoarse from the single word. A powerful feeling is gripping him like a vice, squeezing his chest and throat – literally choking him on the emotion. He’s keeping his face firmly buried against his friend even as small arms come up to circle around Skeppy’s shoulders, holding him close in the gentlest embrace.

“Hey,” Bad murmurs, voice impossibly soft. “Skeppy, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“You.” It spills from his lips, another truth said too soon. Skeppy’s grip tightens as he shudders through another exhale. His filter’s off; he can’t stop the next words either. “Bad, you’re _so cute_.”

“Wh- **_EY!_** ” Bad’s affronted gasp rings through Skeppy’s ears. “You- I am _not_ cute!”

“ _Baaaaaad_ ,” Skeppy groans, a grin finally, finally overtaking his face as Bad begins squirming in his grasp. “Bad, you’re _cuuuuuute_.”

“I am _not_ cute.” Bad’s voice is low, warning – the barest hint of a smile because it’s a game, they’re playing a game. It’s familiar, it’s safer than the feeling that had been choking the air moments ago. “Skeppy, you take that back right now.”

Skeppy keeps his grip tight as Bad tries to worm his way out, keeps nuzzling his face against the other as he grins ear to ear. “Bad, you’re so _small_.”

Another gasp, scandalized. Bad plants his hands on Skeppy’s head – still hidden in the sleeves, so cute, _so cute_ – as Bad shoves down to try and dislodge himself. “That’s it. Get off, I’m taking this off right now. You’re such a- _hrrrn_.”

An angry little mumble has never sounded so sweet, even as Bad wiggles and shoves until Skeppy is forced to finally, reluctantly let him go. He rolls to the side, allowing the other to sit back up and huff petulant mutters as Skeppy lays back on the bed and tries to mellow the _stupidly_ wide grin on his face.

 _Fucking_ hell, man.

Bad’s already started tugging the hoodie up and over his head, and Skeppy audibly groans at the loss. “Baaad,” he whines. “C’mon, leave it on. You look good.”

“No. You’re being bad.” Bad pulls himself free one sleeve at a time, before folding the hoodie in two and tossing it further away on the bed. “You did that on purpose, trying to pretend I’m short.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Skeppy replies easily. “I ordered a Medium. They messed up.”

Another huff. Bad’s pointedly looking away from him, arms folded across his chest. But the angry pout is visibly tinged by embarrassment, going by the delightful shade of red currently discoloring Bad’s ears. “You need to talk to your order team, then.”

“Yeah. I need to give them all huge raises now.”

The pillow he gets shoved in his face might be deserved, but it’s still not enough to smother his laughs.

\---

Another week passes; Bad still refuses to wear the hoodie, even – or perhaps, especially – when Skeppy asks him to. It’s a damn shame, even if somewhat expected, but at least visual has been thoroughly imprinted in his mind. It is an absolute delight to mentally replay the moment over and over, even if the silly little smile it brings often gets Bad’s attention and earns another swat to the back of Skeppy’s head.

Still. Even without Bad draped in his merch, the week isn’t a total loss. Skeppy, in his opinion, has been showing remarkable improvement at the whole homemaking thing. Repetition is driving the routine of housecare into his skull whether he’s conscious of it or not. Bad’s little sticky notes go longer and longer unread as Skeppy just… goes through the motions with increasing ease. He starts remembering how where to fill the detergent line, when to take chicken out to thaw - where to place it on the counter so he doesn’t forget about it overnight. Maybe he’s still not as skilled as Bad, and maybe Skeppy still relies on takeout more nights than not, but he likes to think he’s better than he was.

Honestly, Bad could take another month off his feet if he needed to and Skeppy wouldn’t be unduly bothered. There’s only one snag in the new routine and it’s – not that bad. Not critical. It’s just-

Rat doesn’t seem to like him anymore.

Long before Skeppy had set foot in his new home, before they’d even began tentatively joking about moving in together, Skeppy had made peace with Rat’s place in Bad’s heart. Specifically, the place the elevates her above all else – above Rocco, above Skeppy, even above Bad himself. Rat is Bad’s baby through and through; adored, worshiped and spoiled to a fault. In terms of familial authority, Rat sits at the top with Bad at her feet and Skeppy’s always been amused enough to let it slide.

It’s harder to deal with nowadays. Skeppy’s not sure if it’s because he left or because he returned, but Rat has been giving him the coldest of shoulders ever since his trip, and her disgust with him seems to be mounting by the day. It’s even worse than the first few weeks of co-habitation when shied pointedly away from his touch and tensed at his movements.

Instead, Rat now finds ways to insert herself between himself and Bad. At least once, usually more, Skeppy and Bad will be sitting or laying together and Rat will decide to jump up and make a home where she hadn’t before. On their bed, she’ll crawl up and wedge herself between their heads. On the couch, she’ll squeeze in against Bad’s side until Skeppy has to scoot to make room. Even when they’re thoroughly tangled together to kiss for what should have been hours, an insistent paw will scratch at Skeppy’s side until he’s forced to pull himself off and lift her onto the other’s lap.

It’s annoying, but it’s admittedly not the end of the world. A little neediness is to be expected and her clingy side is somewhat understandable.

Skeppy knows some of it has to do with Bad’s injury. With Bad off his feet, Skeppy’s the one who’s filling her food bowl and attempting to harness her up for walks. Her routine is off and her time with Bad is more limited as a result. While he’d expected that to be mildly upsetting, her displeasure has extended far past a normal coping period.

Still, Rat isn’t aggressive. There’s been warning growls and glares of anger, a few times she's mouthed at his hand, but Rat has never bitten Skeppy hard enough to cause real pain – or anyone, according to Bad’s insistent promises. Instead, she relies on her owner, her faithful protector to keep potential threats in line. He doesn’t know why, but this now seems to include Skeppy himself.

Ever since he’s returned, when Skeppy touches Rat unannounced she yelps as if struck. If he tries to latch her harness, she howls in despair. Picking her up to carry her out of their room at night results in pitiful, shrill whines. All the wounded pleas may glance off Skeppy’s apathetic stare, but they pierce straight through Bad’s heart and become Skeppy’s problem to deal with.

“Skeppy, be careful! You’re hurting her!”

He’s not. Skeppy explains it, over and over again as patiently as he can that he is _not_ hurting Rat, that he would never. Still, no matter how thorough a defense Skeppy gives, Bad is only ever partially swayed; immediately after Skeppy removes himself, he can often hear the other man shower Rat with apologies and overcompensated affection that make Skeppy’s eyes want to roll back in his head.

Maybe he’d accepted that he was rooming with a hopeless simp, but that didn’t mean Skeppy has to like it.

“Your daughter hates me,” he informs Bad one night over dinner.

Bad has the gall to look shocked. “What? Rat doesn’t hate you.”

“Dude, she does. Ever since I got back, she’s been totally pissed at me.” Skeppy stabs his fork into the spaghetti, twirling the noodles around its prongs. “I don’t know what to do.”

“She doesn’t hate you, Skeppy. She’s just, y’know...”

“A daddy’s girl.”

“Noooo…”

Skeppy rolls his eyes; Bad always uses the same tone when he’s lying through his teeth. “Baddy’s girl,” he mutters back.

“Look.” Bad offers a small smile. “She can _sometimes_ be a _bit_ protective of me. Having you do walks and stuff is new for her. She’s probably just confused, she’ll go back to normal once I’m on my feet.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“I mean…” Bad pokes around the food at his plate.

“Dude.” Skeppy swallows down a bite before pointing his fork in Bad’s direction. “I am _not_ gonna keep waking up to dog breath in my face because _you_ keep sneaking her in at night.”

“But she sounds so sad,” Bad whines.

Skeppy throws his hands into the air. “Which is the problem!”

“She misses me!”

“No,” Skeppy corrects quickly. “She just doesn’t like _me_. She was perfectly happy to sleep by herself when she didn’t see me go in the room the other night. But I’ve been keeping track, Bad. Every time I get close to you now, she wants you all to herself.”

Bad fidgets in his seat. “She just misses me,” he repeats with a whine.

“Oh yeah?” Skeppy sets his fork down. “Call her in here. Right now. I’ll prove it to you.”

Bad shakes his head. “Skeppy-”

“ _Now_.”

“Oh my goodness, _fine_.” Bad pushes his chair back, lowering his hands to rapidly pat on his thighs. “Lucy!” he sing-songs, voice sugary-sweet. “Lucy, c’mere!”

The rapid pitter-patter of tiny paws soon follows; Rat jogs into the room, sneezing once as she does. Although the table’s not far, she comes to a stop just a few feet away before looking up at her owner.

“Hi Lucy,” Bad coos. “How’s my girl?”

Rat tilts her head, ears perking slightly. She’s clearly interested, but there’s no further movement beyond that. Bad keeps babbling in baby-talk as Skeppy rolls his eyes and pushes himself out of his seat.

“Watch,” he instructs. He stands there motionless, waiting out her inspection; Rat gives him a passing glance but then turns her attention back to Bad. Once she’s looking away, Skeppy moves over to Bad’s side and stops again – still a foot away. Still not touching.

She looks visibly warier, but Skeppy doesn’t trust Bad to see it. Still, she hasn’t moved; Bad keeps murmuring sweetly to her but she remains still, watching the pair of them now.

Then Skeppy leans over, looping his arms around Bad’s neck to rest his chin in the man’s hair.

The effect is immediate. Rat starts to whine, scurrying over to stand on her hind legs and paw at Bad’s thigh.

“Aw!” Bad begins to reach down for her, taking Skeppy with him. “Lucy, what’s wrong?”

“Bad!” Skeppy reaches over, smacking Bad’s hand away from her. “This is what I mean!”

“ _What!_ ” Bad straightens again, hands retreating. “She’s sad!”

“Because I’m touching you!”

“That is _not_ why!”

Skeppy unlaces his arms, taking three steps back until he’s out of Bad’s reach.

The effect is, again, immediate. Rat drops back down, whines dying in her throat. She doesn’t move from Bad’s feet, but all previous distress has vanished in the blink of an eye.

“ _See?_ ”

“I-” Bad looks flustered for a moment before shaking his head. “Look, that’s just _one time_ -”

Skeppy steps forward again, placing his hand on Bad’s shoulder and leaning into his personal space.

Whining, instantly. Rat, standing up again to paw at the air.

Skeppy lifts his hand and moves back.

The whining stops.

He reaches forward, placing a single finger on Bad’s forehead.

More scratching. More pitiful cries.

Skeppy lifts the finger. Takes another step back.

Silence.

“Oh,” Bad says quietly.

“I _told_ you.”

Surprisingly, Bad remains quiet after that. Skeppy had expected a flurry of at least partial denial or maybe an apology or two – but Bad doesn’t say a word. On inspection, he looks to be thinking; his brow is furrowing and his lips are pursing into a small frown as he stares down at his lap.

“Skeppy,” he finally says. “Come here.”

After a wary look at Rat, Skeppy steps back over to his previous position. Bad’s arms reach up behind him, grasping for contact; Skeppy leans forward, allowing himself to be pulled closer. His arms loop around Bad’s neck once more as Bad tugs him down until their cheeks are brushing against each other. Bad glances at him, as if making sure Skeppy’s okay before they both lower their gaze to at Rat.

She is, in a word, displeased. Her shrill whining is back, louder than ever as she circles thrice before attempting to scratch at Bad’s leg again.

This time, however, Bad isn’t swayed. It’s a bit surprising, really – Rat is yelping as if wounded, which is usually a surefire way to tug on the man’s heartstrings. Skeppy glances between Rat and Bad, watching for the moment the emotional dam looks ready to break. Yet Bad’s expression is remarkably calm, almost completely placid as he watches Rat circle in place again. She is, at this point, literally crying out for attention – but Bad doesn’t seem moved.

Huh.

“Um, hey,” Skeppy begins. This close, he can feel Bad blink against him. “So, for how long-?”

Bad’s hand comes up, cupping the side of Skeppy’s face; his neck turns ever so slightly, and then he’s pressing a firm kiss against Skeppy’s cheek.

Rat’s reaction is immediate, violent – her barks pitch up, shrill and offended as she scrabbles at Bad’s leg.

Yet Bad ignores her. He doesn’t even spare her a glance, continuing to pepper Skeppy’s forehead, nose, chin with soft little kisses that never linger for too long.

Skeppy remains still. He’s delighted, yes, and a very large part of him wants to grab Bad and start returning the affection tenfold. But this seems like Bad’s moment, this oddly exhilarating show of control - and he hasn’t given Skeppy permission to kiss back yet.

Rat is visibly and audibly infuriated at going unheard, but Bad is still unmoved by her increasing volume. Skeppy knows this, because less than a second later his lips are being covered as Bad finally pulls him into a real kiss.

Skeppy starts to move back, grateful and delighted all at once – yet Rat is just getting louder and louder, causing his brow to furrow with discomfort. He tries to kiss properly, he does, but the noise is making it harder.

He gets one teasing nip in on Bad’s lower lip before Rat is suddenly at Skeppy’s leg, angrily scrabbling her paws on his calf. They’re digging into his skin, it’s more than a little painful, and Skeppy has to break away from the kiss to hiss and step back from the sensation.

At least, he tries to – but he doesn’t make it farther than recoiling back before a barked command freezes his steps.

“ ** _NO!_** ”

In hindsight, it’s a little embarrassing to think it had been for him; still, Skeppy goes halts in place as Bad levels a glare at – oh.

Rat.

She’s gone completely still, apparently as shocked as Skeppy that Bad’s tone had been directed at her. She stares up at him and Bad stares back unflinchingly, not a trace of softness in his gaze.

“ _No_ ,” he repeats firmly. “Lucy, you **_do not_** do that.”

Rat looks… cowed. It’s the first time Skeppy’s ever seen her like this; then again, it’s the first time he’s _ever_ heard Bad raise his voice at her. Her ears droop and there’s a small whine that follows, only to be met with another:

“No.” Bad shakes his head sharply. “No. This is _my Skeppy,_ Lucy. You leave him alone.”

Heat blooms in Skeppy’s cheeks at the declaration, heart fluttering in his chest even as Rat ducks her head and averts her gaze.

Bad continues staring at her until he issues a firm: “Go lie down,” to which Rat seems all too quick to scamper out of the room.

Skeppy watches dazedly as she slips out of sight - and then Bad is sighing, slumping back in his chair as the spell breaks and unhappiness seeps into his expression.

“I hate doing that,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to rub at his face.

“Um,” Skeppy replies. A blink, trying to clear his thoughts that are all focusing on the wrong thing right now. “Thank you?”

“I’m sorry,” Bad groans, massaging his temples. “I should have been firmer with her before. I don’t want her jumping and scratching at you.”

“I mean… I get it. It’s okay-”

“It’s not,” Bad interrupts. “Even if she’s upset about me, she knows better.”

A pause. Skeppy considers his options, looking between where Rat had left and where Bad was now, leaning back in his chair with an air of quiet misery. After a moment of struggle, he closes his eyes and lets the clamoring thoughts in his head have their stupid moment.

“Don’t want me scratched up,” he replies, voice slipping into a teasing drawl. “Cause I’m _your_ Skeppy?” His hands slip to Bad’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “Right, Bad?”

Bad hums quietly, eyes fluttering half-shut. Skeppy continues massaging his shoulders as Bad leans into the touch and lets out a softer sigh. “My Skeppy,” he murmurs affirmatively, like it’s so _easy_ to say, like the phrase doesn’t send Skeppy’s stomach into flips. “She doesn’t get to think otherwise or boss you around.”

The stretch of the smile on Skeppy’s face is bordering on painful; he leans in to press his forehead against the back of Bad’s head, nuzzling with the motion. “Yeah. Bossing me around is your job.”

Another hum, this one in clear agreement. Skeppy chuckles, pressing a kiss to the nape of Bad’s neck. “Thank you for sticking up for me.”

“Mhm.” Bad then reaches up, blindly grasping behind him until Skeppy’s hand catches his. Their fingers intertwine, squeezing together as Skeppy savors the warm, happy feeling blooming in his chest.

It’s silly, feeling this victorious over a ten pound dog – but he’d honestly never expected it. Even the hint of being loved just as much as Rat, possibly _even more_ – 

Well. That still seemed unlikely.

Still, _still_ it’s something. It’s affirmation that Skeppy hadn’t even realized he’d wanted this badly, judging by the way his heart is swooping in his chest. It’s a promise that he’s protected – even if it is, again, from a ten pound dog – and it’s just… just…

Comforting.

It’s the word Skeppy settles on as he presses one final kiss to the back of Bad’s head before nuzzling the top with his nose. “I love you, Bad.”

“I love you too, Skeppy.” Bad gives a gentle squeeze of his fingers before murmuring-

_Ah._

Bad’s next words are breathed so softly, barely above a whisper. So maybe, _maybe_ they hadn’t been _meant_ to be heard. Skeppy doesn’t know, can’t bring himself to ask when his breath is stuttering and his heart goes still in his chest. The words, _the words_ caress the cusp of his ear before drifting away as quietly as they’d come and it feels like, seems like Bad hadn’t meant, didn’t _know_ – but still.

Skeppy closes his eyes, willing breath back into his lungs because even if Bad- even if Skeppy didn’t mean to overhear- still.

Still, still, still.

He’d heard.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> \--------------
> 
> This chapter comes with a content warning of the description of guns and the death of a wild animal.

Skeppy doesn’t like camping.

He may be a world traveler, prone to exotic voyages that make for killer Instagram posts - but Skeppy hasn’t accumulated his wealth for nothing. He likes to spend his jaunts around the world in at least _minor_ luxury. Sure, he might ride a camel through the desert for the experience of it all, but there’s always lemon water and air conditioning waiting for him at the end of the day. He doesn’t see the point in slogging it through the wilderness or sleeping on the hard ground when a hotel is always nearby, all too eager to take his money in return for some pampering.

So yes, Skeppy is a creature of comforts. Sue him.

It doesn’t make him weak, he tells himself. It doesn’t make him a wimp or whiny when he rubs at his runny nose and huddles in his hoodie like a petulant child.

He just isn’t used to this.

Bad – Bad loves camping. Bad is the reason he’s here, Bad and his big hopeful eyes and cute little smile that twist up Skeppy’s insides until he can’t say no. Bad, who is currently snuggled up among a sea of blankets in his foldout chair. The man looks without a care in the world as he sips at a cup of cocoa; Skeppy stares grumpily at the sight and _tries_ to hate him for it.

He can’t.

He’s weak to Bad at the best of times but agreeing to this trip really does take the cake. Yes, he’d been excited for Bad’s brace to come off too and no, not just because he was sick of doing laundry. Bad had been over the moon the moment they’d left the doctor’s office, skipping and doing laps before Skeppy had finally, finally herded him into the car. The man had absolutely reveled in his newfound freedom, suddenly wanting to do everything and anything that had to do with renewed mobility.

It had been, in Skeppy’s mind, a little silly. Bad already spent most of his day behind a computer screen, injured or not. It shouldn’t have been that much change, yet Bad’s glee and pride in something as simple as taking the dogs on a walk had been endearing to a fault.

The walks had probably what had left Skeppy’s guard down in the first place. The feeling of Bad’s hand in his as Rat and Rocco pulled them onwards down the quiet streets, the sound of damp autumn leaves that crunched beneath their boots – all wonderful, all warming him from the inside out. He’d enjoyed the time together a little too much, inhaling bracing air and pressing close to one other to ward off the chill.

These were moments that tiptoe on the cusp of fantasy, best kept to short increments that end in a return to a heated home and Korean takeout waiting on their doorstep.

Bad apparently had thought otherwise.

“Skeppy, can we go somewhere this week?”

It’d been an unusual request, one that had pulled Skeppy’s attention away from Rocco’s insistent bush-snuffling to refocus on Bad. While Skeppy might enjoy the occasional globe-trot, Bad did not; before Skeppy had moved in, Bad often self-admitted to leaving his house only for groceries and walks.

“What, like a road trip?” Skeppy had asked, knowing full well a plane ride wasn’t in the picture. “Or driving out to a hotel on the coast?”

“Ooh!” Bad had perked up, then shook his head. “Well, I mean, those sound nice. But I was thinking something a little more active?”

Skeppy had smirked; a stupid sort of confidence, in hindsight. “What, now that you’re not BrokenBoneHalo you wanna do a little thrill-seeking? Got a hankering for some rock climbing?”

Bad had given him a small hip-check and a squeeze to their entwined fingers before replying: “It was a _sprain_. And, sort of? There’s supposed to be a really good national park, like, two hours from here.”

Huh. Skeppy had furrowed his brow, contemplating the remark. “What, so you want to go have a picnic in the park? Bring the dogs?”

“Yeah! But, um…” Bad had scuffed his foot on the ground, slowing their pace to a halt. “Maybe, for longer? Like, staying over for a couple nights.”

Skeppy had blinked. “Staying over? What, in the park?”

“Yeah!” Bad had beamed up at him, hopefulness etched into his expression. “Camping for a few nights. I think it’d be fun, if you want to.”

Skeppy’s stomach had dropped a little, his fingers slackening in Bad’s grasp. “When you say camping, you mean, like, a cabin.”

Bad had shaken his head. “No, camping. You know, tents.”

“So,” Skeppy had said slowly, mind trying to scrabble together alternatives. “Those tented cabins. The ones made out of tarp but they still have heating and stuff.”

“No, no. Camping, Skeppy! Tents, campfires, hiking on trails.”

“Beds?” The last thread of hope.

“I have an air mattress I can bring!” Bad had offered brightly. “And we can share my goose down sleeping bag if you’re worried about getting cold.”

“Air mattress,” Skeppy had repeated weakly. “Sleeping bag.”

And then, of course, Bad’s exuberance had began deflating. Hope and excitement had slipped off the man’s expression as he’d taken in Skeppy’s visible hesitance; the tight squeeze of their hands had slowly gone limp. Skeppy had been stuck, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with impatient dogs tugging at their leashes and a visibly crestfallen Bad at his side.

“You don’t want to?”

It’d been like a punch to the gut. Bad was so, so good at making him feel things way more than he should – because yes, Skeppy hadn’t wanted to. Camping had been the last way he’d wanted to spend his time with the other. His idea of a good trip was spoiling Bad silly, spending time together in the lap of luxury and showering his friend with creature comforts. Not roughing it in the woods with ticks, burrs and bats.

As weak as he was to Bad, Skeppy had nearly been able to say no, too. He’d been so close, the gentled refusal already forming on his lips when Bad had looked away and softly uttered:

“Sorry. It’s okay, I don’t want to make you.” And then the finishing blow, accompanied by another feeble squeeze of their hands as Bad had murmured: “I guess I just wanted to go on a trip with you, too.”

And just like that, it’d been over. That fragile expression and single sentence had irretrievably fucked Skeppy over, left him hastily stammering a rushed acceptance that he’s still kicking himself for now. He’d promised enjoyment and excitement he hadn’t meant, only to see the smile dawn back on Bad’s face.

Stupid. Fucking. Simp.

Because now Skeppy’s here, sitting on a log and still rubbing at a nose that runs from an incessant chill in the air. He doesn’t even look good, stuck in unflattering thermal pants Bad had packed for him and a puffy down jacket that makes it hard to move. He can’t even start a fire because _it’s too early_ and _we’ll be leaving for the hike soon, Skeppy._ Protests will make him look whiny and apparently ‘house hermit’ Bad is in his element out here in the middle of bumfuck nature. Skeppy hasn’t seen a single sniffle or hint of frustration in the other man at the fact that they’re camping in what feels like the cusp of freezing temperatures.

This, from the guy who whined about fifty-degree rooms in the house.

Skeppy doesn’t _get_ it. Part of him had expected – hoped – that Bad would at least be as slightly clueless about all this as Skeppy was. Maybe the long car trip or the absolute pain of packing up the car and filling it with two yappy dogs would have dampened Bad’s spirits, made him rethink the whole thing or at least consider a motel. Yet the man had been unflinchingly cheery, expertly pulling out camping gear hand over fist from their storage locker to the point that it’d been outright baffling. Skeppy hadn’t even known Bad _owned_ this much stuff, let alone made just for camping.

It’s good that he does, admittedly, since Skeppy’s preparations for the trip had been throwing his clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag and calling it quits. Everything from the propane stovetop to the hammock Bad had set up in the trees all came from the man’s own personal stash; they hadn’t even had to go to the store beyond stocking up on food for the trip.

The food situation’s also rather annoying, because as nice as it is inside their tent – comparable to the outdoors, anyway – Bad is an absolute tyrant about what goes into it. Skeppy’s like, 90% sure wildlife wouldn’t be able to sniff out a tiny pack of gummy worms inside his bag, but Bad watches his comings and goings like a hawk. All food goes into the bear box or into their stomachs, no exceptions.

Skeppy’s also fairly sure bears won’t be a problem, anyway. Although Bad had _definitely not mentioned them_ prior to the trip, he’d promised that Rat and Rocco’s presence would keep them at bay - or at the very least, the dogs would bark their heads off if anything strayed too close to their campsite. Skeppy’s never gone toe to toe with a bear before, but a frantic Google search on the car ride up had reassured him that they weren’t the biggest fans of loud noises and angry dogs.

The dogs’ presence is a small reassurance; still a bigger one than the gun, though.

Bad hadn’t really talked about bringing a firearm, and maybe Skeppy had been stupid for not thinking about it. He’d known the man travels with them, knows Bad keeps a current license and a careful lock on them in their home; he just hadn’t really put two and two together until Bad was out of the car and exchanging information with entry park ranger. He’s not really the biggest fan of guns overall, but he knows Bad’s security of mind has depended on them ever since the stalker and break-in incidents all those years ago.

Part of him maybe hopes that Bad would feel safer with him around, but he isn’t going to hold his friend’s trauma against him.

Even if he doesn’t like it, the woods are admittedly one of the best places to justify having a firearm. Skeppy’s slept in some sketch places before, but there’s something about the lack of walls that sets him a little on edge. It’s not like he hates the tent; crawling into their sleeping bag is the best part of his day and snuggling Bad tight in his arms to share body heat alongside sleepy kisses is – nice. Very nice, a new framing for their usual cuddles and admittedly a very enjoyable part of this trip.

Yet still, the flimsy tent walls don’t make him feel secure. Bad does, but Bad’s quick to fall asleep against Skeppy’s chest while Skeppy’s left uncomfortably shifting for hours on an air mattress that’s too firm for his liking. Every snapping twig and rustling of leaves raises the hairs on the back of his neck even with the dogs outside on theoretical guard.

Rat probably thinks she can take on a bear, but Skeppy’s less than confident of that.

Even when Skeppy manages to finally fall asleep, he’s always woken far too early for his liking by the morning birdsong – specifically the crows and their loud, raucous cawing that pierces his dreams like a knife. He isn’t given the option of sleeping in, not when Bad slips from the tent to prepare breakfast at a god-awful eight in the morning and leaves a distinct lack of warmth in his wake. It leaves Skeppy crankily waking up and going to bed earlier and earlier, both from natural fatigue and the smoke from the campfire making him drowsy.

Some of his exhaustion is likely his body adjusting to the sheer strain of… well. Fine, the hikes aren’t actually that physically demanding. Every day starts with what experienced hikers would call a leisurely upwards stroll, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t increasingly taxing on Skeppy himself. He’d been absolutely flabbergasted by the number of aches in his muscles after their first jaunt, after which Bad had helpfully explained that while Skeppy might be physically fit, the muscles he used for hiking aren’t built by everyday use. So Skeppy gets to build new ones and isn’t that nice, isn’t that just peachy that the painful soreness in his calves are for building muscles he’ll only use here and nowhere else.

Just great.

Yes, part of Skeppy’s petulance comes from the fact that hikes are just more impersonal than their walks around the neighborhood. On wide, flat sidewalks they can be pressed up together, hand in hand where Skeppy can sneak shy glances at his friend’s face. On hiking trails, Bad insists on going ahead and making sure each step up the paths are safe. There’s no room for Skeppy to cozy up even if he wanted to and with Rocco always leading on leash, Skeppy is stuck at the back of the pack every single time.

It’s boring. He can’t talk properly with Bad because he’s always out of breath, and he can’t look at Bad beyond the sway of the man’s enormous, military-grade backpack ahead of him. Ninety percent of their hikes are just walking in relative silence beyond the dogs’ barking and birdcalls overhead. In his head Skeppy knows he’s supposed to be enjoying the nature around him and taking in the sights, but it’s usually overwhelmed by the mutual agreement between his mind and his body that hiking _suuuuucks_.

Still. There’s better moments, quiet moments when heavy steps slow to a halt and Bad beckons Skeppy over to a rock or log to sit and rest a moment. There’s the relief that comes with unshouldering his pack and dropping down beside his friend, letting aching muscles unclench and panted breaths even out. Gulps of water come from a bottle passed between them, whose rim lingers with the taste of Bad’s personal trail mix. Skeppy has time in these moments to catalogue minute details like that.

The view’s usually nice, too. Bad picks good spots to sit and relax and just watch the clouds move through the treetops and listen to the forest rustle around them. The taste of pine in the air is pleasing when Skeppy’s not hurriedly gulping it in and leaves him begrudging the sap sticking to his socks just a little less. He doesn’t think he’ll ever _get_ the appeal of this, not in the way Bad does – but he feels a little closer from time to time.

Watching Bad unwind is a better view, anyway.

Maybe it’s just the lack of Skeppy’s own expertise but watching Bad be a regular Paul Bunyon is… interesting. Interesting is the word Skeppy sticks to, even when his gaze lingers a little too long on Bad’s mannerisms on and off the trail. Watching Bad chop through wood for their campfire had been fascinating in a way Skeppy can’t quite explain; he’d had to cover up his wide-eyed staring with light teasing remarks. But when they’re alone, when fatigue of the body gives way to vacancy of the mind, Skeppy is a little bolder in what he takes notice of. Like the way Bad rolls his bicep to soothe the ache of the backpack straps, how he wipes at the sweat beading along his neck. How he sighs in a low, pleasing rumble when he’s feeling a little too tired. It’s all just… interesting.

Sometimes when Skeppy’s forcing his gaze away and down to his feet, he thinks about bringing up-

It.

 _It_ has been weighing down his tongue ever since he’d overheard Bad’s murmur all those nights ago, when Bad had heroically defended him against a ten-pound dog and then breathed something Skeppy is _still_ not sure was meant for his ears. Bad hadn’t reacted, had just kissed his cheek and excused himself for a shower and Skeppy had been left wondering ever since. Every time he thinks about broaching the subject, he finds some excuse not to. Some are valid, some aren’t, but so much time has passed between the then and now that Skeppy’s not sure he’ll ever find the right moment. He’s not sure if there is such a thing.

So he tucks it away the memory, locks it up and tries to leave it alone as best he can. The middle of the woods probably isn’t the best time for a personal discussion anyway; there’s enough fellow hikers that pop up here and there along the trails to keep Skeppy reluctant to broach anything too serious and be overheard.

They’ve run into their campsite neighbors along the path a few times. A father and his daughter, a young woman who looks around Bad’s age, camping out in a luxurious RV that Skeppy is only incredibly jealous of. Bad and the father, who Skeppy cannot name for the life of him, have spent some time swapping stories at the communal bathrooms – which Skeppy has several unflattering opinions of, thank you very much – but other than that, Skeppy doesn’t know much about him.

He remembers the daughter, though. Her name is Cheryl; he knows this because she tells it to him every time they meet, without him asking. He knows she’s a Libra, a pianist and a chiropractor because she tells all of this to him too. She likes most of her father’s cooking but hates the way he makes eggs; she’s spent three years abroad and speaks fluent French, which she practices on Skeppy who speaks zero himself. She’s been told she’s a great singer and a talented artist, and encourages Skeppy to visit their campsite if he’d ever like to be drawn because he has a great profile, did he know that?

It’s blatant. She’s quite pretty and Skeppy feels a little bad about it, but the flirting is manageable. It’d definitely be uncomfortable if she came on any stronger, but Skeppy manages to politely maneuver each hopeful query without offending her outright.

“Are you feeling sore?” she’d asked one day as they’d passed along the trail, fluttering her lashes.

Skeppy, who’d been in the process of massaging his own shoulders, had simply nodded. It’d felt pointless and too complicated to lie.

“You know, I could check your back. You probably have some knots and kinks I could work out, as a licensed chiropractor. You could come over later, if you want.”

“Thanks,” Skeppy had replied, because it had been the only thing that had seemed appropriate at the time. Not a yes, not a no and she’d taken it with a smile before heading off after her father.

That had been the extent of the interaction, yet the chill in the air had never been frostier.

Bad’s harder to read when all Skeppy can see of him is the pack on his back, but the absolute silence had spoken volumes. It’d stretched between Skeppy’s attempts at quaint observations, humorous remarks and idle whistles. Bad trudges on ahead without a word through it all and even if Skeppy can’t see her clearly, he’s pretty sure Rat’s turned her head to shoot him a dirty look once or twice.

They’d made their way back to the campsite without so much as a thread of conversation; Bad had been keeping himself turned away the whole time, and Skeppy’d begun to get genuinely worried. The few glimpses he’d gotten of the man’s face showed only frustration and a hard set to Bad’s jaw.

There is a part of Skeppy that had found the reaction… interesting. Bad’s always been the jealous type, even if he’s not as explosive as Skeppy himself. Threats of another taking Skeppy’s attention away, male friend or otherwise, often elicited this reaction. Jokes about girlfriend applications had always been met with huffiness, explained through snippy _but then you’ll have less time for me_ that Skeppy fondly laughed off.

Still, the moment with Cheryl hadn’t crossed any lines that Skeppy’d been aware of. Skeppy hadn't been out to kiss her; he’d made that fairly clear in action, he thought. Bad may have never seemed to like her, but he’d never closed down like this either.

So Skeppy had been half-curious, half-wary when Bad had set down his pack, tossed Rat’s leash to Skeppy and bluntly said: “It’s cold,” before disappearing into the tent.

Left alone and more than a little nonplussed, Skeppy had moved to tie the dogs back to their posts and set about gathering wood for a fire. There’d been rustling and the sound of a duffle bag being opened from inside the tent, but nothing worrying. Nothing that had grabbed Skeppy’s attention as he’d worked, not before the sound of the tent unzipping, not before the crunch of sticks beneath Bad’s boots had directed Skeppy’s gaze up from the fire pit to land on-

Bad wearing his hoodie.

Bad wearing his hoodie _again_ , Bad wrapped up in yards of baby blue fabric with loose sleeves that trail past his hips because it hadn’t been the old, ratty one, it’d been the _new_ , new and huge and just as good at stealing Skeppy’s breath away as it had been all those weeks ago.

There’d been a light dusting of pink across Bad’s cheeks but he’d pointedly avoided Skeppy’s gaze, a prideful toss of his head preceding: “Don’t start a fire, it’s too early.” Then, Bad had moved away towards the campsite’s wooden picnic table and added: “I was thinking I’d make hamburgers for lunch. Do you want some?”

The query had gone way over Skeppy’s head as he’d vacantly watched Bad start to unpack the portable stove. There’d been a few fleeting glances where their eyes had met, but Bad had always instantly looked away with a firm set to his mouth and deepening red in his cheeks. The sight, the context, the reactions had all been magnificently, intricately-

Interesting.

Skeppy’s voice had been hoarse and foreign as he’d finally rasped back: “Was making fire. You were cold.”

A click of the stove, the metallic scrape of Bad’s foldable pan being set on the burners. “I don’t need a fire, Skeppy,” Bad had replied all primly, a sharp contrast to the barely-repressed embarrassment on his face. “I can just put on more clothes.”

“Clothes you like?” Skeppy’s feet had once again gotten him moving before his mind, leading him in Bad’s direction even as the other refused to make eye contact. “Clothes that… keep you warm?”

“Um.” Bad’s head had been bowed towards the stove, refusing to look up even with Skeppy stopping directly behind him. The red in the Bad’s cheeks had spread to the tips of his ears, even as he’d cleared his throat to continue: “Pretty warm.”

Skeppy’d reached past Bad, tingling fingers blindly moving until they found purchase on the dial. He’d clicked the stove off, leaning against Bad’s back with the motion. The other had simply stood there, hand still on the pan’s handle as Skeppy’s arms had encircled Bad’s waist. Skeppy had gently tugged him backwards, pulling Bad flush against his chest.

“Pretty warm,” Skeppy had repeated, dumbly delighted by the way a puff of his breath had raised goosebumps along the other’s neck. “Not fully. So you’re… still cold?” As if to test it, he’d blown a steady stream of air just below Bad’s nape. It’d elicited a tiny squeak, poorly covered by a cough. Bad had cleared his throat again, the fingers of his free hand flexing distractedly at his side. There’d been more silence, patiently waited out as Skeppy had traced the tip of his nose along the back of Bad’s head. Then finally, quietly, Bad murmurs:

“A little.”

It’d been permission, permission that Skeppy had sunk into with fervent, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of Bad’s neck. He tightened his grip, grasping Bad against him as closely as he could as he’d kissed and kissed and ** _kissed_** everywhere his lips found purchase until Bad finally squirms in his hold. Skeppy had instantly released him, expecting refusal as reality had begun sharpening and dread pooled in his guts – but Bad had just turned around, looping his arms around Skeppy’s neck to pull him into a _proper_ kiss.

And then Skeppy had grinned against Bad’s mouth, matching the other’s shyer, questioning touches with firm confidence. There’d been a part of him that had warned that he needed to pull back, that this moment had been tiptoeing closer to something incredibly dangerous.

A larger, much louder part had sung of the thrill of _possession_ , of meeting the bold, unspoken claim that Bad had staked upon _himself_.

Skeppy’d listened to that one. It had sounded better, anyway.

They’d haphazardly stumbled in the tent, unwilling to part for even a moment as they’d tangled themselves in the privacy of its cloth walls. It had taken ages of slow, deep kisses that had sapped Skeppy’s thoughts of anything but _Bad_ and _**his**_ – yet eventually, the touches had gentled until they’d finally, reluctantly pulled apart to breathe properly and nuzzled their affections out instead.

“I don’t like Cheryl.” Skeppy had panted the words out, tone light and teasing – a joke and reassurance, all in one.

Bad had hummed, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of Skeppy’s forehead before he’d replied: “Me neither.”

Then Skeppy had giggled, Bad had joined in and they’d pressed together and kissed for just a little longer.

In the moment, happily dazed and warmed from within – Skeppy had thought that maybe he liked camping a little bit after all.

\---

Never mind. He definitely hates it.

There’d been a day or two of tentative enjoyment where Skeppy had finally felt some form of acclimation starting to settle in. The hikes became a little less strenuous, the ache in his legs a little duller. The discomfort from the relentless cold was offset by a renewed closeness of Bad snuggling into him at every opportunity. Even the stovetop meals tasted a little better when Skeppy was no longer pining for a fried chicken sandwich every single day.

Then the fragile peace had been shattered, audibly.

When Skeppy had seen another RV pass by on the campground road, headed towards the adjacent lot, he hadn’t thought much of it. Cheryl and her father had been their only neighbors so far, but they hadn’t been all that intrusive as far as noise and commotion went. So Skeppy had just brushed off another nearby family as just another set of eyes in the woods, a potential deterrent to any sort of wildlife that might come scavenging in from the north.

He hadn’t expected them to be quite so fucking loud.

The thing about the woods is that while the birds may be incessant, it’s otherwise incredibly silent. Which means that noise carries, magnified in the space that others leave quiet and calm – especially when that noise comes in the form of music playing at all hours of the day. Skeppy’s not even sure if the speakers are from the RV itself or something detachable, but the sounds of R&B have drowned out any chance of hearing the rustling of the leaves or cries of the crows he’d subconsciously become accustomed to.

The first time the music had started playing, Skeppy had seen Bad’s expression darken and a hard crease settle into the man’s brow. It’d been a bit odd; sure, the new noise was unexpected, but Skeppy didn’t think the songs they played were _that_ bad. It’d been a nice change of pace in the moment, something to tap his toes to as they’d huddled around the campfire to roast tinfoiled corn.

Yet the songs kept playing, the music relentless and incessant long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon and left utter blackness in its wake. It’d been fast approaching the time that Skeppy and Bad slip into their sleeping bag, but the music had shown no sign of halting. If anything, it had felt like the volume’d been turned up sometime in the last hour; judging by the increasingly pinched look on Bad’s face, it’d been getting on the other man’s nerves too.

The tipping point had ended up, naturally, being Rat. A new song with too much base and thunderous effects had drawn whimpers and whines out of her shuddering form, and Bad had decided enough was enough. With a request for Skeppy to put out the fire and crate the dogs before bed, Bad had stormed over to the car and driven off towards the ranger station.

Which left Skeppy now sitting alone in their campsite, absently poking at the red-hot coals with a large stick. It’s a strange feeling; he hadn’t really given it much thought, but Bad’s never left him alone out here before. Sure, the fire feels warm and safe and he’s not all that scared of the rustling in the woods anymore - but it’s still rather new to him. The only source of light comes from the crackling fire and while Skeppy may have the dogs for company, it just all feels a little… lonely.

The smoke in his eyes is making him sleepy as usual, but there’s little chance of slumber right now. The music’s still going, irritating and relentless; more than once, Skeppy considers throwing caution to the wind and storming over to go fuck their shit up, rangers and official warnings be damned.

But Bad wouldn’t like it.

So Skeppy sighs and keeps prodding at the fire, bored and irritable. There’s a package of marshmallows in his lap, but he’s lost all appetite for the moment. It’s not as fun without Bad there to yelp and scold him for lighting them on fire, rattling off the carcinogenic properties as Skeppy happily munches on the thoroughly-blackened husks.

In the tedium, Skeppy sends a passing glance towards Rocco and Rat; the latter’s calmed down once the song had changed, but she still looks to be sulking about it. Rocco’s curled around her, helping keep the pair of them warm on the blankets and-

Oh?

Rocco’s – alert. His head is raised, ears pricked and swiveling; it’s a sharp contrast to Rat’s own slumped form, who clearly hears nothing. Yet Rocco is staring in the direction of the darkened woods with wide eyes and a look of deep concentration. Skeppy shifts uneasily in his chair; this is a new reaction, at least out here. It’s the look Rocco gets when someone is outside their door, or when raccoons are making a run at their trash cans. It’s not a reaction Skeppy appreciates when he’s left on his own in the middle of the night.

To make matters worse Rocco begins growling, a low warning sound that’s clearly aimed in the direction of the woods. A shiver crawls down Skeppy’s spine as Rocco gets to his feet, growl deepening as he strains against his leash and stares into the darkness, facing off against something far out of Skeppy’s sight.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that, bud,” Skeppy mutters to himself, nervously eyeing the shadows beneath the trees. He can’t see any movement, doesn’t hear anything – but even Rat looks tense now, her own ears pricked in the same direction as Rocco’s.

_Please just be a squirrel, please just be a squirrel-_

There’s a snarl, loud and furious as Rocco lunges on his leash-

 _Snap_.

Skeppy’s not sure in the moment if it’s the collar or leash itself that gives way, doesn’t have time to think it through because Rocco is suddenly off like a shot, bolting into the woods in a flurry of barks and snarls and quickly disappearing from sight.

Fuck.

It’s a small mercy that Rocco’s so loud, because Skeppy is 100% not a fan of racing blindly into the woods. He’s still running literally blind, but the sound is something to focus on, to chase after. Panic and gnawing fear are gripping at him as he stumbles through brush and branches that scratch at his skin, but Rocco isn’t listening to his frantic calls. Rocco is too furiously focused on whatever’s out there in the night, making a beeline at a pace Skeppy can just barely keep up with.

He really, _really_ hopes it’s just a squirrel.

His heart is hammering in his chest the entire time and it takes a while, it takes far too many untraced steps to even begin to close in on the sound of Rocco’s _boofs_. By the time Skeppy manages to glimpse a patch of white fur beneath the moonlight, by the time his body collides with Rocco’s own and trembling fingers manage to catch hold of a firm leather collar – they’ve been running for a _while_. He’s been pushing the thought aside over and over through the chase, but as Skeppy pants and frantically pulls Rocco into his arms – it hits him all at once. The nauseating, stomach-dropping realization that had damned him with every step deeper into the woods.

Skeppy has no idea where he is.

\---

Hours pass.

Probably not literally, but feels like it. Calming down had taken ages; Skeppy had stood there in the dark, wide-eyed and on the cusp of sheer terror as the reality of his situation had settled in. Fingers that had weakened from the cold had scrabbled to keep a firm purchase on Rocco’s collar; shivers that were equal adrenaline and fear had wracked his body. Skeppy had stared into the darkness and tried to focus his panicked mind long enough to figure out what in the _fuck_ he was supposed to do.

The age-old wisdom of ‘staying put to be found’ seemed worthless; no one knew where he was. Bad was long gone at the ranger station and while the man may have yet returned by now, Skeppy hadn’t had the time or thought to leave a note or some indication of what had happened. The lack of Rocco may clue his friend in on the _why_ to Skeppy’s disappearance, but it sure as shit wouldn’t give Bad a solid _where_.

Yet as Skeppy had stared into the darkness, contemplating just hoofing it and hoping for the best, he hadn’t been able to find even a pinprick of light to guide him. No flickering orange glow that might reveal a nearby campsite, no LED beams of a car passing by an unseen road. Between weaving through the trees and tackling Rocco to the ground, Skeppy truly hadn’t the foggiest which direction he’d come from – and even if he hated standing around, continuing to walk blindly into the woods in the hopes of finding life seemed like an even worse idea.

So he’d done the only thing sensible thing he could think of, even if he hated it. He’d heaved a sigh, cursed beneath his breath and sat down to wait for eventual rescue.

Waiting sucks even more than hiking. Skeppy tries pacing for a bit, blowing into his one free hand as the other goes numb around Rocco’s collar. But his legs are already sore, his body fatigued from a taxing day that was _not_ supposed to end like this. He finds a log to sit on, pulling Rocco close and trying to maneuver the dog into his lap. The extra body heat helps along with Rocco’s occasional lick to his cheek, but it’s still a far cry from the warmth of the fire or cozy sleeping bag Skeppy very much wants to be nestled in.

It sucks. It fucking sucks and there’s no firm end in sight.

At least whatever Rocco had heard _seems_ to be gone. Rocco’s relaxed in his arms, panting and a tad squirmy, but otherwise seeming unbothered by the fact they’d been dragged into this miserable situation. It pisses Skeppy off but it’s better than the alternative; he really doesn’t need a potential threat prowling up on them right now.

Skeppy’s being diligent about calling for help, even if his voice is growing increasingly hoarse. His phone’s had no bars since the start of the trips, so every so often Skeppy shouts into the blackness for anyone that might hear. Each time his echoing cries fade into silence, Skeppy cups his ears and strains to listen for any sort of reply.

Nothing.

Always nothing.

Time drags on as the chill on the night air settles deeper and deeper into Skeppy’s bones. His jacket and long johns are losing to the cold bit by bit; Skeppy hopes that forty degree weather can’t freeze him to death, but it’s starting to feel like it could. He blows into his hands and shoves his face into Rocco’s fur but it does little. It’s cold and miserable and reminding him how much he hates, hates, _hates_ camping.

More than anything Skeppy hates the fact that if Bad’s been back at the long-empty campsite, his friend is probably just as scared as he is.

Swallowing down the increasingly painful lump in his throat, Skeppy blows on his fingers and cups them over his mouth one more time.

“ANYBODY OUT THERE?! **_PLEASE_**?!”

His cry slowly fades away between the trees – nothing. Still nothing. Still no one coming to find him. Skeppy slumps over into Rocco yet again, squeezing his eyes shut as tears threaten to spill at the edges. He hates this, hates this so fucking much, this feeling of helplessness and fear and the threat, the possibility that he tries to ignore, tries to shove down the knowledge that every slip in the temperature lower and lower and lower means Skeppy might, he might, he might really, truly-

“-lo?!”

It’s quiet, faded by distance and muffled by a sharp gust of wind - but Skeppy hears it. He’s off the log like a shot, on his feet and looking wildly around for the source.

“ ** _HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME?!_** ” he shouts desperately.

Rocco lifts his head, ears pricking in interest while Skeppy holds his breath.

Waiting. Praying.

“-There?!”

The reply is louder this time, just barely. Skeppy’s heart swoops in joy as he peers into the darkness, looking for any sort of-

There. Far off in the distance, a glint of white light; a flashlight, peeking through the trees. Skeppy whoops in delight, frantically waving his hand in the air as he hollers: “ ** _HERE!! OVER HERE, I NEED HELP!!_** ”

The speck of light disappears then reappears as its holder crosses between the trees, in and out of Skeppy’s line of sight. What’s important is they’re visibly coming closer, accompanied by a call of: “-ld still!” Skeppy can’t make out the voice, can’t tell if it’s Bad or just some heaven-sent stranger but in this moment, he does not fucking _care_. He is pure joy and relief, hope filling him for the first time in what feels like forever.

The growl, however, instantly pulls him from his reverie.

Rocco’s initial excitement at the newcomer has visibly evaporated; his ears are pinned back, his lips curling to bare his teeth. Every inch of his body is radiating tension as he strains in Skeppy’s hold, who has to quickly grab the dog’s collar with both hands to keep him in place.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” he promises quickly. “Rocco, buddy, chill.”

Rocco is unabated, unaffected as he continues growling, low and deep as his paws dig in the ground and he stares in-

The wrong direction.

Skeppy’s heart stutters as his gaze flicks between Rocco and the nearing flashes of light; whatever Rocco’s focused on, it’s not who’s approaching. There’s a rustling from a few feet away, answered by a furious snarl as Rocco strains in Skeppy’s hold. Skeppy licks his lips nervously, attempting to pull him backwards even as Rocco squirms angrily.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Rocco, calm-”

 _Calm_ apparently means _bark your fucking head_ off in dogspeak. Skeppy is still struggling to hold him back, Rocco’s warning growls and _boofs_ echoing through the trees. Skeppy catches a glimpse of the flashlight bouncing off another tree before a new sound tears his attention back.

A lower, shriller growl rising to meet Rocco’s own.

Beneath the moonlight, Skeppy can see a shadowed form slip out from the brush. It’s – doglike, judging by the way its baring its teeth, but too big and lanky, thin in all the wrong places. Its fur is standing on end, hackles raised as it snarls its challenge towards Skeppy and Rocco alike.

Coyote. A pissed one, at that.

Skeppy is trying, blindly grasping at Rocco to pull him into his arms as he stumbles backwards – but every inch he gives, the coyote takes as it prowls closer and closer. Each bark from Rocco is met with a guttural snarl as the animal advances and Skeppy is panicking, Skeppy is forcibly lifting Rocco off the ground and trying to stumble away with the squirming, furious dog in his arms.

Then his heel hits stone.

The rock is jagged, painfully scraping at his ankle as Skeppy trips backwards and hits the ground _hard_. Rocco is still struggling in his arms, trying to get free with howls and whines and the coyote is nearly on them, its growls are suffocating the breath in Skeppy’s lungs as he throws himself over Rocco and braces for the feeling of teeth piercing his flesh.

A flit of light across the trees is the only warning Skeppy gets before a thunderous _crack_ splits the air in two.

There’s a _thud_ behind him, barely audible beneath the lightning, earthquake? **_gunshot_** still ringing in Skeppy’s ears. When he lifts his head, acidic fear on his tongue and electric adrenaline vibrating in his veins, Skeppy has to squint to make out what he’s seeing.

The first thing his gaze lands on is the coyote a mere foot away; it’s slumped to the ground, limp and motionless. Thick rivulets of blood are seeping out from its neck; the fur is already darkening, matting from gore.

The next Skeppy sees is the light; light that’s too bright, too painful as its shined directly on him and he’s forced to turn away with a wince. As if realizing, the flashlight lowers to point at to the ground and Skeppy can look back, can blink away the spots at the corner of his vision and slowly refocus his vision. First he sees silver, polished and glinting – the barrel of a gun. Then his gaze travels upwards to the fingers clenched tight around its grip, the shaking arm holding it aloft, the shell-shocked expression of the man staring back at him who looks just as shaken as Skeppy feels.

A thick swallow. Breaths, panted and wafting in the chilled air as Skeppy shivers and tries, tries, _tries_ to move his lips, to praise, thank, console – to say _something_ , anything at all.

A hoarse, terrified croak of: “Bad,” is all he can manage.

There’s no reply.

Bad’s gaze is almost vacant in how intently he’s staring; he’s silent and still despite the visible tremble in his arms, gaze, lower lip. Skeppy’s scared to move from his spot, scared to lift himself off Rocco who is whining softly beneath him. He’s frozen in place, all pins and needles as Bad takes in a shuddering, raspy breath and clenches his eyes shut as if pained.

The lack of eye contact is enough of a reprieve for Skeppy to gather his courage, to lift his own trembling hand out towards Bad as ten thousand desperate words form on the tip of his tongue-

Then Bad’s eyes snap open; his grip on the gun tightens as his expression swiftly darkens. Skeppy flinches under a cold, unmistakably furious gaze sweeping over him before Bad abruptly orders:

“Get up.”

Skeppy’s on his feet before he realizes, mouth slightly agape as he tries to muster a response, more than the raspy wheeze that leaves him when Bad sharply turns away from his searching look.

“This way.” Bad points to the south as he slings his gun over his shoulder. There’s nothing else – no comforting tone, no grasping embrace – just Bad moving away, heading in the direction he’d gestured without so much as a backwards glance.

Skeppy swallows, the sensation thick and painful. Even Rocco seems cowed, loose in his grip as Skeppy’s numbed fingers circle back around his collar. It feels like a million things need to be, should be said – but Skeppy’s words are failing him, crushed beneath the terrifyingly unfamiliar fury radiating off his friend.

So Skeppy blinks, forces his gaze to the forest floor and says - nothing. He tightens his grip, tugging Rocco forward as he begins trailing after his friend into the forest. There’s nothing exchanged, no sounds to be heard beyond sticks cracking beneath their boots and Rocco’s own uneasy panting. There’s just – nothing, nothing but consuming, crushing, _suffocating_ silence.

Skeppy fucking hates silence.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> \--------------
> 
> This chapter and the proceeding will come with a content warning of heavier themes and focus on the trauma that comes with a near death experience.

The walk back to the campsite is spent in silence.

It’s fifteen minutes of uncomfortable tension and half-mustered courage that flickers out before Skeppy can bring himself to speak. The crunch of twigs beneath their boots and the wind rustling the trees above are the only things that break the quiet; even Rocco is subdued, showing no interest in stopping to sniff along the way.

Bad doesn’t talk to him, doesn’t look back beyond a quick glance when Skeppy had stumbled momentarily. The cold fury in the man’s rigid gaze and form hasn’t abated in the slightest, even when the man’s flashlight finally, finally settles on the outcropping of their campsite. As it comes into view, Skeppy notes the lack of orange glow to light the way; the fire’s lain dead in the pit, put out by Bad himself if Skeppy had to guess. There’s a pang of guilt at the realization he’d forgotten to do it himself before racing off – then again, he hadn’t had much time to think about anything, really.

Bad wordlessly begins moving about the campsite, stiffly grabbing and folding up the chairs as he utters a terse: “Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Confusion and shame instantly spike in Skeppy’s gut, leaving him staring as Bad begins swiftly dismantling their campsite. Plates and utensils are thrown into bins with worrisome clatters; the hammock that had been put up with such care is all but ripped off its hooks. As Bad silently works, Skeppy tries to sort out what to say, how to temper the spark of anger that rises beneath sheer disbelief – then Bad looks back, pinning him under a furiously impatient gaze that immediately jolts Skeppy into motion.

Rat hadn’t been waiting at her post; Skeppy doesn’t even realized her absence from the campsite until he’s hauling Rocco’s cage into the car and spots her resting in her own. She’s already buckled into the back seat and the look she gives Skeppy is distinctly unimpressed – though, that isn’t really anything new. As Skeppy buckles Rocco’s crate in beside her, she gives the larger dog a sniff before turning around with an irritable snort to face the other way.

Snubbed on both ends, apparently.

The rest of breaking camp goes by in a blur. It isn’t until the slam of the driver-side door that Skeppy realizes he’s holding the last of the bags in his arms. He tosses them in, shuts the trunk and – hesitates. Bad is already sitting behind the wheel, but the idea of taking the passenger seat beside him seems… unwise. Yet with the dogs in the back and a quick glance to confirm it, there’s been no room anywhere else in the car for Skeppy to squeeze himself in. So with great reluctance, he pries open the passenger door and, after a cautious pause, hauls himself into the seat beside Bad.

Skeppy shoots his friend an uneasy glance as he buckles in, but Bad doesn’t return it. The man’s fingers simply reach for his keys, turning over the ignition as the car rumbles to life. For a brief second, the radio flares on and Skeppy has a glimpse of hope that maybe a little music would ease the palpable tension in otherwise silent air.

Then Bad jabs the power button with his thumb, killing it and Skeppy’s hopes in one swift motion.

Still, the silence works a little better on the dark, winding roads where Skeppy can sit and have a moment to think. The moonlight outlines the forest’s silhouette as it races by the window; it’s pretty, but more so something to vacantly gaze upon as Skeppy rests his tired cheek against the chilled glass pane. He drums his fingers on his bouncing knee, given time to properly turn over the events in his mind now that the adrenaline is finally starting to simmer out.

Bad’s pissed at him. That much is blatant, but the _why_ of it all seems both straightforward and a little unclear. Yes, Skeppy had left camp without a word and yes, he had little doubt that Bad had been out of his mind with worry about it. That much was understandable. Skeppy felt like he could sit down and talk about that without too much issue, apologize and promise to do better.

Yet, at the same time, Skeppy can’t help but feel a small prickle of anger at how… unfair it all felt. Yes, Skeppy had run off – but it’s not like there hadn’t been a reason. Rocco could have gotten hurt and Skeppy has _zero_ doubt that Bad would have done the exact same thing if it had been Rat. Sure, the chase would have been shorter when it involved her stubby little legs – but still. _Still_ , Skeppy thinks as he continues drumming his fingers and nibbling at his lower lip. _Still, he would have done the same._

Maybe Bad would have done things a little better; scribbled out a note, left a better trail. Brought a light before he started running. But Skeppy isn’t experienced at this kind of stuff, and Bad knows that. Hell, the fact that Skeppy had known to stay put to be found seems worthy of at least a little praise, in his mind. It’s not like his situation had been ideal while doing so.

Another flicker, low and unhappy in Skeppy’s gut. Seriously, he’d been fucking miserable for god knows how long. When Bad had found him, Skeppy had been half-frozen and inches away from being mauled by a wild animal – and he hadn’t even gotten hug or a simple _are you okay?_ before being given the cold shoulder. Bad might be a worrier, but Skeppy’d been the one in actual danger. And all from a stupid camping trip that he hadn’t wanted to go on in the first place.

Skeppy’s tapping fingers slow to clench in the fabric of his jeans. The more he thinks about it, the more nettled he becomes – because this feels unfair, this feels like bullshit. He chews on his lower lip because it feels like he should say something, but _clearly_ Bad doesn’t want to talk. Clearly Bad feels like Skeppy needs to be punished for the _crime_ of trying to keep his dog safe. What an _asshole move_ , Bad seems to think, like the other man wouldn’t give Rat a kidney if he could.

There’s a sharp inhale as Skeppy hovers on the cusp of opening his mouth, letting irritation guide his tongue – but then he notices the scenery outside is slowing. He lowers his gaze to the gravel and realizes Bad’s pulling them over and off to the side of the road as the tires grind to a halt. When Skeppy turns to look at Bad, a new question on his lips, he sees the other is staring straight ahead with a glazed-over expression. After a moment, Bad bends forward to press his head against the steering wheel and lets out a long, slow exhale that sharply contrasts with how tightly the man’s hands are clenched. Even with his face half-hidden, Bad looks… nauseous.

Then, suddenly there comes a rasped: “I need you to drive.”

Skeppy blinks, his irritation abating to give way to his own concern. He looks Bad over, but the other doesn’t seem physically hurt. He just looks sick, as if fatigue and worry has caught up to him all at once.

There’s a lot of ways Skeppy could respond. He’s in the position to make demands, or at least to try and coax more than that out of his friend. There’s at last ten different things Skeppy wants to say right now but Bad doesn’t look to be in any condition to listen; besides, the side of a darkened road probably isn’t the best place for a heart to heart.

So Skeppy swallows down his own reluctance to reply: “Sure. I can drive.”

Bad lifts his head to begin unbuckling and Skeppy does the same. When they slip from the car to trade places, neither look directly at the other. By the time Skeppy’s settling himself into the driver’s seat, Bad’s already buckled in and curled with his knees against his chest. His cheek’s resting on the window pane; Skeppy knows from experience that it’s cold.

Yet still, even when Skeppy turns the keys and the car hums back to life – Bad says nothing, doesn’t even murmur a _thank you_. He just keeps staring out the window, visibly exhausted and clearly lost in his own thoughts.

It’s fine. Skeppy had time to concentrate and sort out his own feelings; he can give Bad a reprieve to do the same. Home’s still more than an hour away. It’s plenty of time for the other to realize that he’s being completely fucking unfair.

So, really. It’s fine, absolutely fine. Bad can have his stupid, silent space.

Because before Skeppy goes to sleep tonight, he’s going to get some answers.

\---

When the dogs are uncaged, when the last of their bags lay strewn across the living room and Bad tonelessly states: “I’m going to bed,” before turning to head towards his room – Skeppy finally, finally speaks.

“We need to talk.”

It’d been a more dramatic moment in his head, because Bad just keeps walking.

Skeppy’s lips purse in annoyance, brow furrowing as he follows after Bad’s retreating footsteps. “Hey!” he snaps, kicking a duffel bag aside. “Don’t ignore me.”

“I don’t want to talk tonight.” Bad’s voice is low and offputtingly even. Even his movements seem robotic as the man opens his bedroom door and slips inside. He even tries shutting the door behind him – and would have succeeded, had Skeppy not just jammed his leg in the way.

“Bad,” he scowls, shoving against the frame. “I’m not going to bed with this bullshit hanging over us.”

“I can’t do this right now.” Still toneless, still quiet. Bad’s face is hidden like this, unreadable; he’s leaning against the door on the other side as Skeppy stubbornly pushes back. “I want to go to bed.”

“No, you don’t,” Skeppy snaps. “You-”

_You don’t even sleep in there anymore._

Skeppy reins back the words. It’s too obvious, a sharp tug on the proverbial tightrope they’ve been treading so carefully. So he takes a moment, inhaling through his nose and refining his thoughts. Finally, he grits out: “You can’t just avoid me, Bad.”

“I don’t want to be around you right now.”

The words are strained, barely above a murmur – yet how quickly they fan the flames of anger licking up Skeppy’s spine. His scowl deepens; he shoves on the door, hard, but Bad is digging his heels in, refusing to give up ground. “Seriously?!” Skeppy gives the door a kick for good measure. “ _Seriously_ , dude?! I go through all that, and you need _alone time_? What if _I_ don’t want to be alone, huh? I was already alone for hours, half-freezing to death, and now my best friend wants me to just _fuck off_!”

“I understand that you’re hurting.” The words are clipped, yet Skeppy can hear the control in Bad’s voice audibly quiver. “But I can’t be the one who comforts you right now.”

“Wh-” Skeppy gapes at the door; the instinct to soothe the other is swiftly losing to fury. “ ** _Bad_**.” Skeppy muffles the snarl working its way up his throat, giving the door another swift kick. “You can’t just- are you really going to act like this?! You’re going to just shut me out, like you would have done anything different, like I _really_ did anything _so_ wrong for trying to save my dog-”

“You-” The door is immediately wrenched open; Skeppy stumbles forward with the motion, smacking right into Bad’s chest. When he looks up, he sees the tears flowing down the other’s face – alongside pure, unrestrained fury.

Bad always cries when they’re fighting.

“ ** _You_** ,” Bad hisses, shoving Skeppy back and jabbing a finger in his chest. “You did **_everything_** wrong. **_EVERYTHING_** _!_ ”

Skeppy stares back; then his own face scrunches up in anger as he bats the man’s hand away. “I did _not_! Rocco ran off-”

“ ** _YOU_** ran off!” The tears aren’t stopping, but Bad’s fury isn’t abating even through the voice cracks. “Do you have **_any_** idea what that felt like?! I had to- I came back and you, you were just- you were gone, you left me **_nothing_** -”

“Bad!” Skeppy tries to grab hold of the other’s wrist, but Bad just wrenches it away. “I didn’t have time. If it were Rat-”

“ ** _Oh_**.” Bad’s voice goes dark as he advances into the space between them. His gaze is hardening, cold and dangerous – Skeppy matches it with his own, even if he unconsciously takes a step back. “Oh, you want to talk about **_Rat_** , Skeppy?! Rat, who you left all alone with _no_ protection, _no_ supervision, where anyone or any _thing_ could have just walked up-”

“This is **_bullshit_**!” Skeppy howls, throwing his hands into the air. “ ** _This_** is why you’re mad?! Because of **_your_** dog?! You think you get to be all pissed when _you_ would have done the exact same thing if it was Rat that had run off-”

“ ** _And if I had_** ,” Bad cries back, hands shooting out to grasp in Skeppy’s shirt. “If I had, wouldn’t **_you_** be angry too?! Wouldn’t you be so, **_so_** angry with me right now, for making you go through that?!”

“I-” Skeppy falters; the unrelenting fury in him stumbles at the sight of fresh tears running down Bad’s cheeks.

“Skeppy,” Bad whispers, voice hoarse and cracked. “You **_know_** how much you mean to me.”

“I…” Skeppy licks his lips, trying to hold onto the fury swiftly slipping out of him. “Well, but-”

“If it was me,” Bad continues, staring up at him and looking raw, desperate, wounded. “If you had to come back, to- to nothing. To an empty campsite, where you didn’t know where I was or why I wasn’t coming back, and you didn’t know what had happened. Where you couldn’t help but think of the worst, where you had to stumble blindly through the woods, on the **_chance_** of actually finding me – and then-”

Ah. Bad’s voice is cracking, expression crumbling as more tears flow down his face. “And t-then,” Bad warbles, “you s-see me, about to- to get _hurt_ , to **_die_** for her- would you really not be _angry_? Would you really not be, s-so, _so_ hurt that I valued my **_life_** that l-little?”

Skeppy’s heart is a drum, painful and deafening in his chest. The need to stay angry, to fight back is melting away and gut-wrenching guilt is slipping into its place. _It’s still- it’s not fair_ , he tries to tell himself, but then Bad sniffles loudly and Skeppy’s own expression starts to weaken. “Bad…” he murmurs. “If- I didn’t mean… if, if it was you, I…”

Bad drops his hands and sniffles again, wiping at his face with his sleeve before lowering his gaze to the floor. “I know, I know you w-were scared. B-but I can’t, I can’t be the one to c-comfort you, right now.”

“Bad,” Skeppy pleads, reaching out to brush the other’s cheek; Bad flinches at the touch. “Look, I- I get it. I scared you, and I’m sorry. I really, really am. I didn’t mean to, and I was stupid in the moment. But,” Skeppy murmurs, gentling his voice as much as he can. “Please don’t shut me out. If it was you, and Rat – I probably _would_ be upset. But, I’d- I’d also understand, y’know?”

There’s a violent quiver to Bad’s lip; the man’s eyes scrunch shut as he whispers:

“Then maybe you just mean more to me than I mean to you.”

And then Bad steps back and the bedroom door slams in Skeppy’s face. The lock audibly clicks a moment later and Skeppy is left standing there, staring glass-eyed with disbelief as utter silence closes in around him.

Skeppy fucking hates silence.

\---

It’s been a while since Skeppy’s slept alone. These conditions are even less ideal than the hotel.

The night passes slowly; Skeppy spends it in a sweat-drenched half-sleep that comes and goes in bursts yet somehow leaves Skeppy more tired than when he’d started. His dreams are restless, painful and lonely. The coyote and the gunshot slip in and out of his consciousness in dread-inducing waves; each time he grasps for Bad, the image of the man turns to salt and sand and slips from between his fingers. 

By the time Skeppy opens his eyes, the sun’s already peeking in through the blinds; with a groan, he rolls over to grab his phone and scans the screen to read off an unfortunate 2:14 P.M.

Below the time, a text message from Vurb. A few of them apparently, the others hidden behind the locked screen – but the one on top is displayed with a set of words that make Skeppy’s stomach lurch all over again.

**_what the fuck did you do_ **

Skeppy instantly bolts up in bed, fingers flying to unlock the screen. He hastily scrolls through the other messages his friend had left, but nothing is explanatory. Just petitions for him to wake up and respond, all rapid-fire, one after the other.

Skeppy quickly types back **_wat do you mean_** and hits send. He doesn’t have a moment to process because half a second later his phone’s already begin to buzz, vibrating in his palm as Vurb’s caller ID lights up the screen. When Skeppy swipes to answer, he gets it up to his ear in time to hear:

“Dude, seriously, what the fuck did you do?”

Skeppy pushes his hair back from his face, staring wildly in no direction at all. “I- Vurb, I just woke up. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Isn’t it like, two in the afternoon where you are?”

There’s a glance at his rumpled bedsheets before Skeppy continues: “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Didn’t sleep well because you fucked up?”

“How- I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude,” Skeppy snaps. “Can you stop being fucking cryptic and just spit it out?”

“Check Twitter.”

Skeppy’s on his feet in an instant, sweeping over to drop into his computer chair. A quick jiggle of the mouse gets him to the log-in screen; Vurb waits with unfamiliar patience as Skeppy opens his browser and quickly taps in the URL. “Any blog in particular I should be checking, puzzlemaster?” he queries sarcasticly.

Vurb’s reply is unnervingly even. “Whose do you think?”

With deeper dread pooling in his stomach, Skeppy types in Bad’s handle and hits Enter.

It doesn’t take him long to find; it’s the first post on the man’s page, a Pin replacing the merch offerings Bad usually kept up top. Skeppy feels his heart drop lower and lower as he goes over the post, line by line.

_Hi guys! This is hard for me to say, especially since I just got back online, but I'll be missing my upcoming scheduled streams. Not sure when I'll be back to streaming again, but hopefully soon. Rat loves you! owo_

When Skeppy swallows, he tastes acid. Vurb’s silent on the other line – silent, he fucking hates silence, so Skeppy clears his throat and roughly replies: “Is it the streaming thing?”

“No, it’s the picture of Rat in a pirate outfit. Of course it’s the streaming thing, man. Bad hasn’t missed his Saturday shit in years, and now he’s a no-show? What happened on that trip?”

“Well, obviously you know, huh?” Skeppy’s temper is already getting the better of him, temper flared by Vurb, Bad, this stupid fucking tweet. “Since you called and started blaming me, saying it’s my fault.”

“Is it?”

Skeppy slumps in his chair, irritably toeing at the cables under his desk. “We had a fight.”

“You always do.”

“A big one.” Skeppy reaches for his pen; it’s something to click, something to keep his hands occupied. “It’s complicated and stupid.”

“You always are,” Vurb hums back.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No, you’re not.” Vurb’s amusement is plain; he hadn’t even flinched at the threat. “Tell me what happened.”

Skeppy sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I got lost in the woods.”

“Oh, shit.” Vurb sounds genuinely shocked. “How’d that happen?”

“Rocco got off leash.” Skeppy squirms; his shrimp-like posture is starting to hurt, so he scoots back up in his chair. “Bad left to go tattle on these dick neighbors in the next campsite. While he was gone, Rocco heard something in the woods and when he started pulling, the leash snapped and I had to go run after him.”

“And, what, you got turned around somehow?”

“Yeah.” Skeppy rolls the pen back and forth between his fingers; it’s mindless, yet helps him focus on something at the same time. “It was like, pitch black night. I could hear him barking, but-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Vurb interrupts. “This was at _night_? You not only ran off into the woods, but in the middle of the _night_?”

“After my _dog_ ,” Skeppy retorts defensively.

“Did you at least have like, a light or something? One of those satellite GPS things?”

“No,” Skeppy mutters back. “I didn’t have time. I just ran.”

“Wow.” Vurb whistles, then clucks his tongue. “Man. That’s pretty stupid, even for you.”

“It- _mmrrgh_.” Skeppy pushes his hair back from his eyes, dropping an elbow onto his desk. “Look, it was in the heat of the moment. Yeah, it was _stupid_ , but…”

_But what?_

“I assume someone found you, at some point,” Vurb muses.

Skeppy sighs into the line. “Yeah. Bad did. It took fucking ages, I was freezing my ass off.”

“Oh, good. I’m sure the longer it took, the less _stressed out of his goddamn mind_ he was about it all.”

“You’re not being a very supportive friend.”

“I’m a great friend.” There’s crinkling and a _pop_ , like Vurb’s just opened a bag of chips. “Great friends tell you when you’re being a fucking idiot. You’re lucky Bad found you at all. Dying in the woods isn’t as uncommon as people think.”

“I already know that.” Irritation is prickling beneath his skin again, sharp and unpleasant.

“But you said you had a fight.” Vurb’s chewing loudly; Skeppy holds the phone further away from his ear. “Which means you fought back on the fact you were being an idiot. As you often do, but still.”

“I was _fighting back_ ,” Skeppy snaps, “on the pont that he would have done the same goddamn thing if it had been Rat. Which we _both_ know he would.”

“Mmmmmm…” Vurb hums, audibly slipping a new chip into his mouth. “Maybe. And I’d be calling him an idiot too, if he did. But I’m pretty sure you’d be just as pissed and worried as he was, if he disappeared on you.”

Skeppy slides back down in his chair, rubbing at his cheek. Flashes of the night before dance at the corners of his eyes as he exhales lowly. “He said that. During the fight, I mean.”

“I mean, it’s a good point.” More crinkling, then a swallow. “You guys have some weird no-name thing going on, but it’s been clear for years that Bad loves you like crazy. Which means he might be quick to forgive you on small stuff, but it’s gonna hit him harder when you fuck up big.”

The groan he gives earns a chuckle from Vurb; Skeppy continues massaging his cheek and chin before quietly muttering: “He went to go sleep in his own room last night. Even slammed the door in my face.”

“Ouch.” Vurb sounds half-sympathetic, half-amused. “Well, you knew he was the emotional type when you married him.”

“He wasn’t though,” Skeppy argues back, choosing to ignore that last bit. “When he found me. It was weird. He was all stony and silent, didn’t even ask if I was okay. I mean, he shot a fucking _gun_ and didn’t even-”

“Whoah, whoah, whoah,” Vurb interrupts sharply. “ _Excuse_ me? What’s this about his guns?”

Skeppy sighs through his nose. “He brought a gun when he went looking for me.”

“Okay, cool, why’d he _fire_ it?”

“There was a coyote.” Skeppy worries at his lower lip with his teeth. “Rocco kept barking and pissing it off.”

“And Bad _**shot**_ it?” Vurb’s disbelief is palpable.

“It-” Skeppy pushes himself up from his chair, beginning to pace around his room. “It kept coming at Rocco. I pulled him back, but I tripped, and-” The memories are sharpening, pushing away the confines of his room until all he can see are blackened woods and pale teeth bared in moonlight.

“Hey. You there?”

Skeppy blinks thrice; the images wash away until he’s back, standing in the middle of his room with trembling legs. “Huh?”

“You went quiet for like, ten seconds there.”

“Oh,” Skeppy replies eloquently, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. “Um, yeah. Coyote attack. I tried to protect Rocco, and Bad shot it.”

It’s Vurb’s turn to be quiet for a moment. As if carefully choosing his words, the man slowly says: “So, a coyote came at you… and you protected your dog?”

“More at Rocco than me.” Skeppy blinks again, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hands. “Rocco wouldn’t stop barking at it. I just tried to, I dunno, body block him when I fell. Then Bad showed up and shot it.”

More silence. It’s teetering on uncomfortable again, and Skeppy’s about to comment when Vurb suddenly remarks:

“You are a **_fucking idiot_**.”

Skeppy recoils from the sudden heat in Vurb’s tone. “Wh-”

“No, no, no,” Vurb interrupts harshly. “Nah, shut the hell up, because now _I’m_ pissed at you. What the fuck, man?!”

“I-”

“You don’t _**fucking** _put yourself between a pet and a pissed off wild animal! Your life is not worth your dog’s, you fucking-” And then Vurb’s making his own strangled noise; there’s a clatter, like he’d just kicked something.

“Oh, come on!” Skeppy protests. The change is startling; Vurb’s gone from a mild scolding to white-hot fury in an instant. “It was just instinct! And, I mean-”

“Nah, nah, nah. No _I mean_ , no excuses.” There’s a squeak, the familiar sound of Vurb getting out of his recliner. “God, no wonder Bad’s taking time off. I’d fly over there and strangle you myself if it wouldn’t just make him feel worse. You fucking _idiot_.”

“Can you calm down?!” Skeppy snaps, exasperation overtaking his surprise. “You’re _not_ helping.”

An angry huff follows, but Vurb doesn’t keep ranting. Instead, Skeppy warily listens as the other man moves about on the other end of the line, cursing under his breath.

“You guys both get so angry,” Skeppy mutters, lying back against his pillows. “Like I thought it out, or something.”

“We’re allowed to get angry even when you don’t think.” A sound of a fridge opening, the clink of bottles. “Actually, especially when you don’t.”

“It was Rocco,” Skeppy mumbles back.

A _pop_ and _hiss_ of a can opening. Vurb audibly takes a swig before replying: “Listen. You know those fire safety lectures you used to get as a kid?”

Skeppy perks a brow. “What, like, a specific one?”

“No, I mean.” Another sip, then a sigh. “When they’d tell you about how you don’t go back into a burning building. Not for your stuff, and not for your pets. You used to get told that?”

“Yeah.” Skeppy shifts uncomfortably. “I remember.”

“And y’know how there were always those kids who’d stubbornly insist on going back, no matter what? Cause they loved Fluffy and Mittens just that much?”

“Yeah,” Skeppy repeats warily.

“I used to be one of those. I didn’t get it, thought I was a bad person if I just let the pets I loved so much die. I was really stubborn about it until my mom sat me down and talked it out with me.”

Skeppy stares up at the ceiling, tracing the lines in the plaster one by one. “What’d she say?”

“She said that even if it’s hard, in a situation like that you don’t think about the pet. You don’t even think about you. You think about all the people who love you. All the people who’d mourn and miss you when something happened. How badly you’d hurt them, even if you succeeded, because you risked your life like that.”

“Oh.”

It’s the only thing Skeppy can muster right now. There’s a new dead weight on his chest, suffocating him under the sudden wave of guilt.

“Bad loves you so much, man,” Vurb says softly. “And not only did you run into that burning building, you made him watch.”

Skeppy’s eyes clench shut. “Oh,” he repeats feebly.

“Mhm.” Vurb audibly sips at his can before setting it down on what sounds like a counter. “I’m not saying this to make you feel shitty, dude. Well, a little. Because I am still pissed. But,” he continues, “the point is, from what I’m hearing, you don’t have much of a leg to stand on in this particular fight.”

“I fucked up,” Skeppy whispers hoarsely.

“You fucked up,” Vurb confirms. “And since I know you’re both absolute shit at talking to each other, you might be in for quite a storm before this blows over.”

Skeppy rubs at his face vigorously, kneading at his forehead over and over. “Fuck.”

“Good luck, man.” Another sip, then the loud crinkle of a can being crushed. “Try mixing in some daily gifts with your ten-thousand-page apology, and maybe he’ll forgive you by late next year.”

“I’ll try,” Skeppy murmurs back.

“Could also do some contrite bowing and begging at his feet. Course, I’m sure you already have lots of practice getting down on your hands and knees for h-”

Skeppy abruptly ends the call, but the vindictive smile feels hollow at best. He lets his arm drop to the side, exhaling a deep sigh as he lays back and just – regrets.

This was going to be a long day.

\---

A long day turns into a week, then another.

Bad is unmovable. Skeppy’s tentative apologies and plying with small gifts at the start had gotten him nowhere; being as heartfelt as he could and showering the man with expensive foods, cutesy plushies, even toys for Rat hadn’t made a difference either. Each time Skeppy tries to explain himself, to show that he knows where he went wrong, Bad seems to listen. But their gazes never meet for long, no matter how desperately Skeppy tries to catch his friend’s eye.

They don’t talk. Skeppy talks to Bad, at Bad, but he rarely gets more than acknowledgement mumbles and quiet one-liners in reply. Bad moves around the house like a shadow, purposefully shying away from rooms Skeppy is in and gliding out not long after he enters. The couch becomes space for one person alone and is left mostly unused as a whole.

When Rat needs to be walked, Bad goes alone. Errands to the store, the bank, the butcher are all done solo with Bad slipping out the front door before Skeppy even realizes. When meals are delivered, Bad takes a plate to his room and turns the lock behind him. He’s still not streaming, and even barely active on his Twitter that Skeppy checks thirty times a day, hoping for some new glimpse into the man’s psyche.

Bad’s shut him off with no end in sight and it is utterly, _miserably_ lonely.

Every time Skeppy thinks it might get a little better, there’s new, unwelcome reminders that set them back. Bad shifts between cold shoulders and despondent gazes at the drop of a hat; the several calls he’d had to make to the park rangers hasn’t helped, either. Although Bad seems to be getting off with a slap on the wrist, the lengthy descriptions of the attack Skeppy overhears from the other room do little to settle his nerves. He’d even had to get on a call himself to recount the tale and verify his status as a witness; that day had been especially rough, culminating in Bad not leaving his room for several hours. Bad rarely ventures out, anyway – he’s become a recluse in the sanctuary behind his locked door.

After the first night apart, they’d kept to sleeping in their own beds; even now, Skeppy isn’t used to it. In his dreams, he still reaches for a body that he desperately wants to be lying beside him. Rocco’s renewed presence at the foot of his bed doesn’t help ease the pang of longing when Skeppy wakes to find only a pillow wrapped up in his arms. It’s so much colder sleeping alone than he remembers; piles upon piles of blankets do little to soothe the ache for a warm body against his.

Skeppy still dreams of the woods, sometimes – of freezing limbs, suffocating darkness and hot, panted breath that slips from between bared teeth. Waking alone with a gasp and a sweat-soaked body is awful enough; coming down from the rush only to be met with the painful knowledge that he can’t turn to Bad for comfort is even worse.

Bad dreams of the woods too; Skeppy thinks so, at least. It’s rare, but sometimes in the middle of the night he’ll wake to hear his door crack open and see his friend’s shadow fill the frame. Bad watches him in the dark, never for long – as if he’s checking in, making sure Skeppy’s really still there. Each time Skeppy quietly, desperately hopes that this will be the moment, that Bad will finally walk forward and slip under the covers where he belongs, where Skeppy can hold and treasure and love him like Bad deserves.

But Bad always leaves without a word, and Skeppy is always once again left alone in the cold and dark.

He’d tried, once, to bring it up in a round-about way. He’d phrased it under the guise of worry for the dogs, offering to give up his room so they can once again have a bed to sleep on.

“I can always sleep on the couch. It’s pretty comfy, central to the kitchen.”

Bad’s only reply had been an icy: “You have a room for a reason. Stop trying to sacrifice everything you have for the pets.”

Skeppy hadn’t brought it up again.

At the end of the second week, Skeppy finds himself helpless and completely lost on what to do, what to say that could possibly make a dent in the ten-foot wall Bad has erected around himself. With no new ideas of his own, he does the only thing he can think of.

“You know I’m not actually a relationship counselor, right?”

Vurb’s voice is at least amused instead of put-out; Skeppy’s calling early in his time-zone, but Vurb’s sleeping schedule is always a thing of mystery.

“I know.” Skeppy’s lying on his bed again, kicking his legs idly in bicycle motions. “You suck too much to be one.”

“Wow. Maybe I’ll hang up on you for once.”

“You won’t,” Skeppy replies, every bit as confident.

“I won’t if you admit I’m relationship counseling you.”

Skeppy extends a leg towards the ceiling, straining to point his toes directly up. “Bad and I aren’t in a relationship, though.”

“Boy, is **_that_ **debatable.”

“He’s still mad,” Skeppy continues, ignoring the quip. “I’ve tried everything. He’s like a statue, except he only moves to leave whatever room I’m in.”

“Did you try apologizing?”

“Wh-” Skeppy scrunches his brow in irritation. “Of course. I’ve done that a million times over.”

“Mmm.” Vurb’s leaning back in his chair, judging by the poorly-oiled squeak. “Honestly, I don’t know. You two really suck at talking. You always need someone else to come in and counsel out the issues, even when you guys first started hitting it off. But this is a pretty serious situation, and honestly? Way out of my league.”

“So, who should I ask? Astelic?”

“No,” Vurb corrects. “I think you should go talk to someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Like, an actual counselor with degrees and shit, not your streamer friends. At the very least get Bad to see one, because the man is clearly going through it.”

Skeppy worries at his lower lip. “I don’t know if he will.”

“Have you asked?”

“No.”

“Well,” Vurb remarks, with an air of confidence. “Then it’s something new to try, isn’t it?”

\---

Skeppy picks his moment carefully.

It’s rare to get Bad in the kitchen for any extended sort of time nowadays; where the man had once enjoyed filling their home with the scents of fresh-cooked meals, Bad now relies on DoorDash even more than Skeppy. Yet there are a few things that Bad still makes on his own; namely, when he runs out of his supply of gluten-free pastries. Even with the constant cloud of gloom hanging over the man’s head, every so often he’ll pull out the baking sheets and become occupied and stationary for a decent amount of time – time that Skeppy needs in order to start this conversation.

So Skeppy watches, and he waits.

It happens on a warm Sunday afternoon; Skeppy’s on the couch, zoning out on a bad episode of Top Gear when Bad’s bedroom door opens. Skeppy takes little interest at first, only perking up when he sees the man heading towards the kitchen. He holds his breath, straining to listen as Bad rounds the corner and disappears from view. Nearly a minute passes but finally, finally Skeppy hears the tell-tale clatter of the overhead cabinets being opened.

Showtime.

Still, Skeppy isn’t impatient. He plays it cool, pretends to be invested in the show as he counts down the time it would take for Bad to really get knee-deep in the process. After eleven minutes have passed, Skeppy rises from the couch and heads towards the kitchen – only to carefully peek around the corner first.

Bad’s got his apron on, meticulously rolling a wet ball of dough between his hands. There’s already several dollops waiting on the baking sheet, and more to go judging by the size of the mixing bowl on Bad’s left. He’s halfway done, halfway to go. The worst time to drop everything and disappear back into his room.

Skeppy sucks in a breath and slips into the kitchen after him.

He’s either gone unnoticed or is being outright ignored, but Bad doesn’t respond to Skeppy’s presence. He looks absorbed in his work, fingers roughly kneading at the dough in meticulous motions and only pausing when Skeppy audibly clears his throat.

“Bad,” he begins. “I want to talk about something.”

Skeppy watches Bad slowly tense, even as the man’s fingers resume their motions. After a moment, Bad replies with a quiet: “I’m busy right now.”

“I know,” Skeppy replies. “But I don’t get to see you very often. So this seemed like a good time.”

“You see me.” Bad rolls the dough into a ball, dropping it onto the tray. “We live together.”

“Do you want that to change?”

He may have practiced them, but they’re not words Skeppy likes saying. Still, the effect is powerful, immediate. Bad stops all movements, fingers hovering over the mixing bowl before he turns his head to give Skeppy a look of pure disbelief.

“What?” Bad whispers, voice already pitching high with emotion.

“I don’t want to,” Skeppy adds quickly, soothingly. “But, it seems like you might be happier if I lived somewhere else.”

Bad’s gaze slowly hardens before he looks away again, focusing back on the bowl. “I never said that,” he replies curtly, shoving his hands into the dough. “Don’t say things like that.”

“You’re not saying anything to _me_ , Bad. It’s been weeks, and you still avoid me. You still won’t talk to me, no matter what I try.”

“I need time.” 

“You need to _talk_. I know we both suck at it, but you at least need to talk to _someone_.”

“Skeppy…” Bad warns.

“How long, Bad?” Skeppy presses desperately. “How long are you going to punish me for this? Because as much as I’m trying, as much as I acknowledge that I fucked up and hurt you and want to do better, it still feels like you just don’t want me here. It feels like this isn’t something I’m ever going to be able to fix on my own.”

“I-” Bad lifts his gaze again; hurt and what looks like genuine shock are mingling equally in his expression. “I’m not…” Confusion, fingers that tremble as they’re lifted out of the bowl. “I’m not doing this to _punish_ you, Skeppy. This is how I feel.” A thick swallow, pinprick tears already forming. “How I’ve been feeling, all the time.”

“So _tell someone_ that,” Skeppy pleads, voice roughening with emotion. “Because it hasn’t been me. See a counselor. I’ll pay for all of it, go as many times as you want.”

“I don’t need you to-”

“Please.” Skeppy takes a step forward, then another. Bad stands there, looking at him then through him with every other breath as Skeppy slowly closes the distance between them. They’re close enough that he can feel Bad’s breath on his face; but Skeppy doesn’t lean in, doesn’t lift his hands to brush through Bad’s hair like he desperately, fervently wants to. “Please,” Skeppy repeats, soft and gentled as he holds Bad’s trembling gaze with his own. “Even if it ends with you kicking me out. I want you to talk to someone. I don’t want you to keep feeling like this.”

A sniffle. Bad’s starting to cry again; every fiber of Skeppy’s being is telling him to close the gap, to take Bad in his arms and hold him, to console and soothe and kiss until the tears have dried.

He doesn’t move. He can’t. The tacit permission between them is gone.

Skeppy’s not sure it’ll ever come back.

“Okay.” Bad’s agreement is warbly and strained, accompanied by a rub of his sleeve over his eyes. “I’ll- I’ll see someone.”

A modicum of tension leaves Skeppy’s body – not all, not even close, but enough for him to get out: “Alright.” He takes in a steadying breath before continuing: “I’ll help. I’ll look up some good ones, send the links to you on Discord. You don’t have to pick any of those, specifically but it’s… it’s a starting point.”

Bad nods, continuing to rub at his eyes with the undirtied parts of his sleeve. There’s no follow-up, no extra words as Bad continues to sniffle and hiccup. Each tiny sound is like the squeeze of a vice around Skeppy’s heart.

But he can’t move forward. Not yet. So Skeppy takes a step back, giving the man space as he offers a quiet: “Thank you,” before he turns to head towards the kitchen’s exit. As his final steps slow towards the entryway, part of him hopes, thinks that maybe Bad will call him back, maybe Bad will run forward and wrap Skeppy in a hug and grant him the touch he’s gone so long without.

But Bad doesn’t. Bad stands there, wiping the tears from his face and taking deep, rattling breaths to compose himself. Skeppy can’t help but smile forlornly as he slips from the room and out of Bad’s sight.

Vurb's right.

They're both shit at this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone a little too anxious, I can reassure that I do not like writing stories with unhappy/bittersweet endings. Trust.


	8. Chapter 8

Her name is Doctor Imelda Ramos.

She’s not one of the handful of psychologists Skeppy had drummed up himself, hunched over his computer as he’d poured through Yelp and various other review sites. He’s not sure if that fact makes him feel better or worse; that Bad had taken extra time to do his own research into the right fit, or that Bad had just found all of Skeppy’s options lacking. Perhaps the other man hadn’t even really checked the links Skeppy had sent. Bad’s long turned off the Read option when it comes to their message history; there’s really no way of knowing.

Bad hadn’t shared her name beforehand, either. Skeppy had waited patiently, the agreement that Bad would look for someone to talk to still hanging precariously in the air. Skeppy hadn’t felt like pushing for solid confirmation of an appointment merely two days after the discussion, but Bad had surprised him – chiefly, by exiting his room the next afternoon with his dress shoes on and his keys jingling in his pocket.

“Are you going somewhere?” Skeppy had asked, expecting some comment about a walk or a trip to the store.

Yet Bad had merely nodded and offered a quiet: “I’ll send you the name,” before slipping out the front door and locking it behind.

A minute later, Skeppy’s phone had buzzed with a text to a website link that he’d quickly tapped open.

 _Doctor Imelda Ramos_ , he’d read in bold letters at the top of the screen. _Counseling and Mental Health._

The sheer number of her degrees is impressive; she looks expensive, even from just the home page. Skeppy is currently trawling through her site with swipe after swipe of his finger, pouring through her reviews, her hours, her recommended peers. He opens her up on Yelp; four and a half stars, which is pretty good all things considered. The few negative reviews are petty things about parking space and insurance conflicts, but nothing that looks like too big an issue. 

The words _couples therapy_ sticks out, even if it’s just one of many bullet points listed as her specialty. It’s definitely not a word Skeppy had used in his own search, and it could still just be a coincidence that she’s the one Bad had ending up settling on.

Still, the echo of Vurb buzzing around in his head leaves Skeppy shifting uncomfortably in his seat until he finally decides to stand and get to work.

Bad may be back on his feet, but the man’s avoidance of common areas and general malaise has left the house in a less than pristine state. Bringing it back up to Bad’s usual spick and span standards is the least Skeppy can do. With the other out of the house for what Skeppy assumes will be an hour, he’s given ample time to start washing the day-old dishes and tidying up the living room. Rocco and Rat flee to the bedroom when Skeppy pulls out the vacuum cleaner, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about irritating or waking Bad from a gloom-induced nap.

The noise of the vacuum cleaner still ends up working against him. Buried beneath the grind of its gears, Skeppy spends nearly half an hour in blissful routine; it’s not until he’s clicked it off and stowed it firmly away that Skeppy notices his phone’s not on him. A quick search leads him to the kitchen, where he finds it resting atop the counter alongside his self-written list of chores. As he picks it up to stow it back in his pocket, the screen lights up to reveal a new message has been waiting.

The text is from Bad.

Skeppy immediately swipes up and taps in his password as quickly as he can; with bated breath, he watches the lock screen fade away and the message pops into place before his eyes.

**_I don’t hate you._ **

Skeppy stares. And stares, and stares some more because the message is – absurd, so completely out of pocket because of course Bad doesn’t hate him? Skeppy’s never thought that for a second, even in their worst fights; Bad is Bad, Bad is kind and loving and maybe he gets too emotional for his own good, but hate? Hate Skeppy? Did Bad think Skeppy thought that? Did Bad think about hating him because of this?

His feet lead him out to the living room before he consciously realizes; Skeppy collapses on the couch with his eyes still glued to the screen. Abject confusion, relief and fear swirl together to force an uneasy frown on Skeppy’s face as he just – stares.

Should he respond?

 _Yes_ , seems to be the obvious answer to that. Bad hasn’t texted him anything like this before, and little at all beyond necessity since they’d returned from the trip. Choosing not to reply might lead Bad to stop messaging altogether and as strange as the text had been, it’s still a starting point that could become something more.

What to reply, however, seems less obvious.

More than twenty minutes tick by as Skeppy weighs his options. _I know_ , seems too cocky. _I miss you_ , too needy. Questions asking for more explanation give Skeppy the feeling that Bad won’t respond – the text is plain for a reason. If Bad hadn’t wanted to give more depth, he would have.

Finally, Skeppy taps out: **_i dont hate u either_** and hits Send.

It had seemed like the safest option; not more than Bad had given, not less. Yet as no reply is forthcoming, Skeppy finds himself bouncing his leg nervously and glancing to the clock more and more. Another twenty minutes pass, but still nothing.

Skeppy’s not even sure when Bad’s session is. Is Bad still in it? Had he left, or is it still to come? Unease gets him up off the couch, sets him back into the motion of cleaning to take his mind off it and to appear busy whenever Bad might return – yet continual phone-checking reveals no news. Bad still doesn’t have Messages Read turned on either, so Skeppy doesn’t even get the peace of mind from that.

At least there’s a lot to do. Skeppy mops the floors, and checks his phone. He swaps the laundry, and checks his phone. He sweeps the doorway, scrubs the sink, re-organizes their junk drawer – and checks his phone.

Bad doesn’t text back.

It takes so long that Skeppy genuinely loses track of the time; it’s not until he’s half-asleep on the couch with a muted movie rolling its credits that he finally, finally hears the jangle of keys outside. As Skeppy lifts his head off the couch, the dogs are already racing towards the foray with a flurry of barks; the door audibly opens and shuts, and Skeppy can hear Bad quietly sing-song his usual affections in greeting.

Going to meet him at the doorway seems a little too bold, so Skeppy waits on the couch and pretends to be interested in his phone. After a minute or so, he can hear Bad’s footsteps approaching the living room. When he lifts his gaze upward to murmur his own greeting, the words die on his tongue as he takes in Bad’s expression.

Bad looks exhausted. His shoulders are slumped, hair mussed – even his shirt is rumpled and creased. There are bags under the man’s eyes that hadn’t been there this morning, along with obvious tracks of long-dried tears streaking down his cheeks. An air of complete fatigue is all-encompassing, from his slouched stance to his lidded gaze.

“Are you okay?” slips past Skeppy’s lips before he can stop it.

There’s an affirmative hum as Bad lifts a hand to rub at his face, before continuing with a rather obvious: “I’m tired,” followed by “Going to take a nap,” as Bad turns to head towards his room.

There’s at least ten questions Skeppy wants to ask, all jumbling in his brain and clamoring for attention. But none of them manage to surface – not _why did you text me that_ , not even _do sessions really take that long_? Bad slips out of sight and as Skeppy hears the man’s door shut, he slumps back into the couch and stares vacantly in the direction Bad had gone.

_I don’t hate you._

The words replay in his mind, but don’t make any more sense than before. Whatever had happened in or out of that session, Skeppy isn’t any closer to understanding. Maybe he’s not meant to. Not yet, anyway.

With a heavy sigh, Skeppy pushes himself off the couch and stretches his arms into the air with an audible groan. Bad might be retiring early, and he still might not be talking, but Skeppy has no intention of going to sleep on an empty stomach.

If a shared kiss of forgiveness isn’t going to warm Skeppy’s lips tonight, at least some microwaved pizza rolls might.

Bad remains in his room for the rest of the evening; while Skeppy ends up staying awake pretty late, munching on his piss-poor dinner and shooting hopeful glances towards the hall, Bad had apparently conked out at a crisp seven-thirty.

So Skeppy cuts his losses and goes to bed with no hopes beyond a dreamless night. He doesn’t get his wish, waking up thrashing and panting with the sound of a gunshot ringing in his ear – but it’s not the worst dream he’s had, at least. Bad doesn’t come by tonight, doesn’t hover in his doorway to peer at Skeppy through the darkness; perhaps the other man is having a more restful night than Skeppy, at least.

It’s close to two in the afternoon by the time Skeppy finally drags himself out of bed; he throws on something half-presentable for a lazy afternoon. He’s got no intention of streaming tonight – he rarely does, really – so grunge wear seem fine for the lack of occasion. Skeppy’s feeling in the mood for waffles, so one of his less-nice shirts feels practical against the threat of spilled syrup.

As Skeppy pulls open the door his gaze is forward, not lowered; which is why it sends a shocked jolt through him when he takes a step forward and hears something crunch beneath him. As he lifts his foot, bright red packaging first comes into focus before Skeppy reads off the big, white lettering atop it.

Skittles.

It’s a package of Skittles, left at his doorstep. It’s momentarily confusing, drawing a puzzled furrow to his brow as Skeppy bends down to pick it up and turns if over in his hand. He hadn’t bought any Skittles recently. Hell, he hadn’t been to the grocery store in several days. So that meant-

Bad.

A new sort of jolt skitters up his spine at the realization. If they weren’t Skeppy’s, then they must, they had to be from Bad. Bad had left these here for him because – a misunderstanding? A gift? A quick scan of the expiration date confirms that the candy is fresh, not stale or a package once lost somewhere in the house. So that meant-

_Bad bought these for me._

Skeppy’s hold on the package tightens as he clutches it against his chest. He can feel his heartbeat accelerate, hammering in his ribcage – but for the first time in weeks, the racing sensation feels dizzyingly warm instead of painfully chilled.

It’s not talking. It’s not an admittance of forgiveness, not remotely close by a very, very long shot. But it’s – something. It’s acknowledgement, a chip off the cold shoulder Bad’s been giving him. It’s a tiny, cheap package of candy but Skeppy’s cradling it against himself as if it were the world’s rarest gem.

And it’s only been one session.

\---

The pace Bad moves at is glacial, but by God it’s moving – and Skeppy kisses the ground of each inch given back.

He still doesn’t know what Bad talks about in the sessions; Bad is still solidly uncommunicative, still dodges questions and prolonged interactions with Skeppy just as before. Skeppy has no idea how long Bad spends or even which days he has scheduled; every time Skeppy thinks he’s worked out the routine, Bad will or won’t go on a certain time, only to exit his room while twirling his keys at the oddest hours of the day. They’re still within Doctor Ramos’ posted hours – Skeppy’s checked, multiple times – but beyond that, he’s left in the dark.

Yet even blind to the particulars, Skeppy can see the slight shifts in Bad’s behavior.

The Skittles are the most obvious one. While Skeppy isn’t entirely sure when Bad has or had the time to amass them, every day Skeppy is left a new package of the candy. It’s usually at his doorstep, but on the rare occasions that Skeppy’s up before Bad, he’ll eventually find them left on the coffee table, the counter, or whatever flat space there is in a room Bad’s occupied before the man leaves.

Each time he sees a new one, there’s a small swoop of delight in his stomach and a quickened pulse that lasts for as long as he has his fingers on the package. It seems counterintuitive and a little embarrassing, but Skeppy doesn’t actually eat the candy. They feel far too precious for that. Instead he keeps them all, piling them high in his desk drawer for safekeeping.

On some nights, when the restless dreams won’t leave him be and the empty bed feels especially cold, Skeppy will bring them all out and count them over and over – numbering each gift, each day Bad has shown even this small gesture of care.

Bad may not be ready to talk to him yet, but Skeppy doesn’t want to simply receive the treats while giving nothing in return. So two days after the first gifting, he heads to the store and rounds up as many of Bad’s favorite candies as he can find. Snickers are one he knows for certain, so he buys them in bulk. Bad’s also shown a liking to sour candies, so Lemonheads, Sweet Tarts and Spree all get loaded into the cart too. Skeppy tries to mix in as many varieties as he’s sure of; Bad may have a sweet tooth, but he’s also remarkably picky at times about his food.

Figuring out where to leave them is also tricky. It’s hard to consistently wake up before Bad, and he also doesn’t want to discourage the man from his habit of leaving Skittles while Skeppy’s still asleep. Bad manages to make more frequent eye contact than before, but the man still shies away from spending too much time in rooms Skeppy is already in. The option of leaving candies like the Snickers in front of Bad’s door is also out of the picture; while Rocco and Rat have shown no signs of interest in the heavily-artificial Skittles smell, the threat of a chocolate bar down either of their gullets isn’t something Skeppy wants to risk.

The solution ends up being rather unorthodox. While the dogs may be a sore point between them, Bad is still insistent and constant on being the one who feeds them. No matter how gloomy he may be, Bad is always the one shuffling out of his room to prepare their meals every morning and night. It’s a reliable routine; perhaps the potential locations of the gift-drop are not as personal as what Skeppy gets every morning, but it should work.

So, with some trepidation, every afternoon Skeppy starts leaving candies atop the plastic, kibble-filled containers stowed high up in the cabinets.

He isn’t sure how well they’re received. Every time he checks back after a feeding, the candies have disappeared – but Bad gives no indication that he’s noticed them beyond that. Skeppy checks the trash more than once, but it doesn’t seem like the other man’s tossed them; that reassurance is a small consolation, but better than the alternative.

It isn’t until four days later that Skeppy spots Bad curled up on the couch, nibbling on a Sour Punch Straw and the relief of confirmation finally, finally floods through him.

 _Do you like it?_ flies to the tip of his tongue. _Is this helping?_

But he doesn’t ask and Bad doesn’t say. There’s brief eye contact before Bad glances away; the light dusting of pink on Bad’s cheeks contrasts with the uncertain frown that pulls at his lips.

Confusing. But it still feels like more progress than none.

The candy trading goes back and forth for about two weeks with only a few small changes in Bad’s behavior. Although Bad still mostly keeps to his room and prefers to walk and shop alone, there’s some marginal improvements on the co-habitation side of things. Bad starts washing the dishes again, even if Skeppy’s the only one that cooked that night. Bad dusts, does laundry, even cleans up Skeppy’s mess in the living room. None of these things are with Skeppy around, usually done when he’s still sleeping or locked in a recording session – but it’s still a little more acknowledgement than shown before.

Bad still isn’t back streaming. Skeppy’s checked the GPS Twitter accounts, but the man hasn’t been sighted on anyone else’s streams either. Asking Bad to be in a video with him seems like a lost cause before it had even begun, so Skeppy ends up defaulting to his next-next best recording partner to keep his channel running.

At least Technoblade doesn’t ask how he’s doing, doesn’t mention Bad. Techno just chuckles and does what he does, which is usually kicking Skeppy’s ass at whatever challenge that’s been laid out. It’s a brief distraction and sense of normalcy that Skeppy appreciates more than the other man probably knows.

It’s not like Skeppy doesn’t understand why Bad’s taking a break. Every stream Bad’s run for the last few years is always peppered with questions about talking to Skeppy, calling Skeppy, playing with Skeppy. The constant reminders and pleas of their fans would likely refuse to abate even if asked.

Skeppy struggles with it himself; everywhere he turns, fans are badgering him about where Bad’s gone, how Bad’s doing. Twitter is borderline unusable; any time he tries to reply to someone about something inconsequential, fifty threads about BadBoyHalo’s disappearance spring up. Every third comment on Skeppy’s new uploads are queries or pleas for an explanation as to why he’s uploading without the other. Which is – marginally fair. The bulk of Skeppy’s videos feature Bad; that hadn’t been intentional, at least not at the start of their relationship. Bad’s just fun to play with, bounce off of. Be with.

Skeppy does his best to at least keep his fanart page updated; although most of his Liked content is solo, he tries to mix in a few retweets that feature Bad and himself to not raise too much alarm. He finds himself shying away from some of the more intimate-looking pieces, though – yes, the idea of hugging Bad under the stars does sound pretty good, but it also feels a little too on the nose at the moment.

It’s during one of his usual Twitter-scrolling sessions that Skeppy is pulled away mid-retweet by a notification popping up on his phone. He swipes Chrome down and pulls his messages up – only to have his heart stutter in his chest.

Another text from Bad.

The other man is out, has been out for nearly half an hour for one of his appointments. It’s bizarre to have a message come in now; Skeppy pretty sure Bad’s in the middle of a session, plus the man hasn’t texted back since their one-sentence conversation two weeks back. No acknowledgement of Skeppy’s reply has been forthcoming; not until now, at least, as Skeppy reads off the newest message from his friend.

**_You matter a lot to me._ **

Skeppy scans the words over and over as warmth blooms in his chest. These six words make more sense than the last four, even if they’re as equally obvious. Still, it’s nice to reminded – doubly so when it’s one of the few interactions Bad has spared him in weeks. Skeppy traces his thumb over the message with a gentle, almost reverent touch as he stares fondly down at the screen.

It doesn’t take him as long to think of a reply this time. Skeppy taps back: **_u matter a lot to me too_** and sends it off – then pauses.

He needs to contribute more than that. Affirmation without a hook for continuation hadn’t gotten him anywhere last time. But the message has already been sent; he needs to follow up and fast, before Bad puts the phone down. So Skeppy quickly types out: **_i liked hearing that_** followed by a hesitant **_i miss talking to u_**.

It’s a little blatant, potentially needy. But Skeppy’s growing regret and embarrassment is quickly snuffed out when he sees the little bubbles pop up at the bottom of the chat.

Bad’s typing back.

Skeppy holds his breath as the seconds tick by. The bubbles rise, disappear, then rise again – Bad, erasing and retyping several times before a new message finally flashes onto the screen.

**_I miss talking to you too._ **

Skeppy’s fingers are already on the keys when another text appears below the first.

**_Thank you for the candy._ **

A smile twitches at the corner of Skeppy’s lips; a pleasant, electrical feeling hums in his veins as he taps back: **_u too. for the skittles. its rly nice to wake up to._**

Skeppy then pauses, considers, then cautiously adds: **_i stepped on the first one lol_**

It might be a risk, trying to add humor while in such a precarious situation.

**_I thought you might haha_ **

Skeppy exhales in relief. His fingers tap idly on the sides of his phone, trying to drum up what to say next. Another joke? A comment about where he’d left his own candies for Bad? Just asking the other man what he wanted for dinner? The possibilities were endless, but each needed to be carefully thought out.

Then Skeppy’s phone buzzes in his hands and his attention is drawn back to the screen.

**_It feels easier to talk to you like this._ **

Skeppy blinks, mind whirring to figure out the ‘ _this’_.

**_u mean with texting?_ **

**_Yes_** comes back in reply. Then: **_Is that okay?_**

His head is nodding before Skeppy realizes that Bad can’t see him. He immediately writes back: **_of course_**. He then erases **_i dont care as long as ur talking to me_** and replaces it with **_i like talking to u, no matter how were talking_**.

Bad’s reply takes a while to come back; long enough for Skeppy to start worrying again, gnawing at his lower lip and wondering if he could have phrased it better or if Bad is just done with speaking to him for another few weeks. Finally, Skeppy’s phone vibrates once more and he hastily unlocks the screen to scroll to the message.

**_I’m going to try talking like this more._ **

**_im happy to talk,_** Skeppy immediately taps back ** _. whenever u want._**

_I miss you so fucking much._

He doesn’t type that last bit – doesn’t dare. Still, relief and exhilaration are tingling at his fingertips as he dazedly, blissfully stares down at the screen.

Bad’s going to talk to him. Maybe not in person, maybe with a lack of the touch that Skeppy’s been longing for like the air he needs to breathe – but it’s still talking. It’s more, so much more than the silence Skeppy loathes.

It’s a step. One Bad had taken of his own accord, yet again.

Skeppy wonders if Doctor Ramos accepts flowers arrangements sent to her office.

\---

Bad sticks to his word, and Skeppy couldn’t be happier.

Every day, multiple times a day, Bad texts him. It doesn’t matter if Bad’s out, in his room, or letting the water heat up for a shower. Skeppy will hear a reliable buzz or _ping_ alerting him to the fact that Bad is reaching out; every single time, Skeppy hurries to respond.

Most of the things they talk about are inconsequential. Requests for things from the store, remarks about new music or games the other’s been trying during their mutual streaming lapse. Once or twice Bad chides him for forgetting to run the dishwasher or replace the toilet paper roll; even those texts don’t bother Skeppy because of how comforting it feels, how much closer to normalcy they’re tiptoeing.

They make some mistakes along the way; Skeppy feels like he does, anyway. Mentioning the dogs earns distinct gaps between Bad’s replies. Talking about his videos with Techno, the longest pauses. Skeppy tries to keep things light, but there are certain topics that Bad still seems uncomfortable discussing even through toneless, faceless text. So Skeppy makes an internal list of questions that seem harmless enough, and chooses his moments to ask them.

**_did u sleep well?_ **

When Skeppy brings that one up it’s early in the morning and Bad’s still locked away in his room. In the moment, it had felt like a normal conversation starter. Rather banal, if anything. It’s only when Bad takes a little too long to respond that Skeppy ends up thinking about his own restless dreams and the nights where Bad will come and stand in his doorway, as if to check on him. It’s been a while since Bad’s done it – or at least, since Skeppy had woken to catch a glimpse of the other – so it hadn’t crossed his mind until he’s left sitting on the couch, bouncing his leg in place and filled with unease while staring down at his screen.

Fifty minutes after Skeppy first sends the text, his phone finally buzzes with Bad’s reply.

**_I have trouble sleeping these days._ **

Skeppy chews on his lip, re-reading the message over and over. It feels like they’re teetering on the edge of something dangerous, like one misplaced word in Skeppy’s response will send them careening over the edge. **_i’m sorry_** is an admittance to an accusation Bad hasn’t outright made. Offering to spend the night with Bad, to try and help him fall asleep? Too bold, sure to end in rejection. There’s little choice in what to say, aside from the obvious.

The truth.

**_me too._ **

Skeppy runs his tongue over the back of his teeth before cautiously adding: **_i have bad dreams a lot_**. He then throws in an: **_it sucks_** to at least try and partially lighten the tone.

He expects Bad to take some time to reply to that, so Skeppy sets his phone down and picks up the remote. He’s flicking through a few Netflix Top 10 options when there’s an audible buzz; Skeppy immediately snatches his phone back up, speeding through his passcode before the Messages app pops open on his screen.

**_What do you dream about?_ **

It’s a bolder question than Skeppy had expected, one that has the breath leaving him all at once. He’d thought Bad might offer a small condolence, even bypass the remark altogether – but this was just diving deeper into troubled waters.

Skeppy’s first thought is to lie, to joke, downplay his response and bring the mood back up before the topic slipped into even more dangerous territory. But then again – Bad had asked. Skeppy had given the truth and Bad was looking for more. Was it safe to give?

It’s Skeppy’s turn to leave a gap in their conversation, to sit and really think out how to reply. With slow, hesitant fingers, he types back: **_the woods._**

Bad’s response is startingly immediate. **_What about the woods?_**

Another, sharper exhale. There’s no turning back now, no denying what Bad is seeking from him. Skeppy leans back into the couch, slumping against the armrest as he taps out: **_being there. being lost cause its dark or getting attacked._**

**_Am I ever there?_ **

Skeppy’s heart flutters at the words, even if he can’t give the answer Bad wants.

**_sometimes. i hear the gun a lot. i think its supposed to be u. but every time i try to grab or look at u, u disappear._ **

The words feel too weighty, even as Skeppy’s thumb presses Send. He winces, then quickly adds: **_guess thats why theyre called bad dreams lol_**

As expected, Bad doesn’t respond – at least, not immediately. After five minutes of nothing Skeppy sets the phone back down and, with a heavy heart, picks the first movie on the screen to try and occupy his attention. From the previews, it looks like it’s got something to do with beauty pageants; not exactly Skeppy’s usual go-to, but it’ll kill time.

It takes Bad twenty-seven minutes to reply; Skeppy knows, because that’s what the screen reads when his phone vibrates and Skeppy scrambles to hit pause. As he re-opens his messages, Skeppy finds himself taking a steadying breath before lowering his gaze to read Bad’s response.

**_Do you feel like I disappeared on you?_ **

The tone is hard to read. Skeppy can’t tell if it’s sincere, morose, or downright accusatory. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, trying to sort out what to say. His foot rapidly taps on the ground, drumming out a beat that feels almost in time with his quickened pulse. Skeppy’s been honest, as honest as he can be in the last hour – diverting now seems like a bad idea, but so does telling the raw truth in this moment.

Hesitantly, he tries to soften it down to: **_i miss being around u._**

 ** _That’s hard for me right now_** comes back a minute later.

 ** _i know_**. Skeppy swallows past the lump in his throat, about to continue with an apology when his phone buzzes once more.

**_But I don’t want you to feel like it’s all your fault._ **

**_isnt it?_ **

**_No._** Bad’s reply is simple, but firm. It’s swiftly followed by: **_It comes from more than just you._**

**_what does?_ **

**_How much you scare me._ **

Skeppy’s chest clenches painfully as he reads, then re-reads the words over and over. They’re dizzying in their sincerity, snatching the air from his lungs as Skeppy’s fingers tremble and struggle to keep the phone steady in his grip.

 ** _i dont want u to be scared of me_** is all he can think of in reply.

 ** _I don’t want to be either_**.

 ** _what can i do?_** Skeppy types back desperately. ** _tell me what i can do to make it better_**

 ** _The sessions are helping_**. Another pause, then: **_I feel better than I did._**

**_how long do u think itll take to feel all better?_ **

**_I don’t know._ **

**_i hate this._ **

It had flown out of Skeppy’s fingertips before he’d realized, an audible gasp as he felt his thumb hit Send. He regrets it, instantly, shooting up on the couch as the phone slips from his grip and clatters to the ground. By the time Skeppy manages to steady his fingers enough to snatch it back up, there’s already two new replies waiting.

**_I’m sorry._ **

**_I’ll understand if you still want to move out._ **

Skeppy’s breath catches painfully, a wretched hiccup clawing at his throat. **_i dont want that_** , is typed back as quickly as he possibly can.

**_You don’t?_ **

**_never,_** Skeppy replies, too far gone and ragged to stop the truth from spilling out onto his screen. **_i hate being separated from u. even if ur in the same house, i still miss u every day. i don’t want to leave unless u make me._**

 ** _I wouldn’t make you_** comes back immediately ** _. But I’m hurting you._**

 ** _i don’t care._** Skeppy lifts a palm, rubbing at the tears that had already threatened to spill. **_being even more apart would be worse._**

**_I don’t want to make you feel worse._ **

_**and**_ **_i dont want to scare u. but here we are._ **

It’s a petulant reply; half of him regrets it, but the other half is too exhausted to care. Skeppy slumps down in full, phone resting on his chest as he stares vacantly up at the ceiling. His chest and limbs ache like he’s run a marathon, and he’s just been sitting on the couch since noon.

Five minutes later, another buzz. Skeppy almost doesn’t want to look at it - but of course, he will. With tired fingers, he swipes open the screen to read off Bad’s new text.

**_If you could have anything from me right now, what would it be?_ **

_You_ , comes to Skeppy’s mind instantly. _You feeling better. You forgiving me, you holding me like we used to. You letting me kiss you and kissing back so I know you mean it._

But the practical part of his mind tells Skeppy that this isn’t the kind of response Bad is looking for. So he tries to think of something more concrete, something doable in their current, precarious state. Something that might help soothe the weight pressing down on Skeppy’s heart without sending Bad ten steps further away from him. After several minutes of thought, he presses his fingers to the keypad to slowly type out:

**_i miss sleeping next to u. i wake up from a dream where u disappeared but ur still not there._ **

Bad takes his time responding. Skeppy doesn’t dare to hope – which turns out to be a good idea, when Bad finally replies back:

**_I don’t think I’m ready for something like that._ **

Skeppy swallows again, clenching his eyes shut. Muscle memory lets his fingers tap back an **_ok_** before he starts to drop the phone back down – when it suddenly vibrates again.

**_Maybe on the couch._ **

He has to read it five times before the words finally, finally parse through his mind and have him instantly jumping to his feet. He stares in breathless disbelief, unable to type out a proper response for a solid minute due to the shaking in his fingers.

 ** _what do u mean?_** The need for clarification has never been stronger.

**_If you wanted to nap on the couch, I think I could be there in the room. So that when you wake up I’m still there with you._ **

It’s not as much as he’d wanted, but _God_ is it something. Skeppy’s stomach is doing delighted flips as he presses the phone to his forehead, trying to steady his racing pulse at the agreement, the sheer image of Bad at his side for the first time in weeks.

**_really?_ **

It feels fucking pathetic, but he has to be sure. He has to be certain that Bad would really, really-

**_Yes. I think I’d be comfortable with that. We can see what happens, but I want to try._ **

Grateful, all-consuming relief floods through him; tears that had just barely begun to form have already started spilling down Skeppy’s cheeks. He furiously rubs at them with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to keep his eyes clear so he can type back a response – but then another buzz cuts him off.

**_Can you do something for me, though?_ **

**_of course_** is sent back instantly. _I’d do anything for you_ is held back, kept firmly in thoughts alone.

Another pause; not as long as the others, but long enough that Skeppy has begun nervously bouncing his foot in place before Bad’s message finally comes through.

**_My sessions are helping me. I want you to see someone too._ **

Skeppy’s brow furrows; it’s not an unfulfillable request, just not what he’d expected. **_about my dreams?_** he guesses.

**_About everything. It doesn’t have to be who I’m seeing, but I think you should talk to someone about what happened. What’s still happening._ **

**_i can go,_** Skeppy promises. **_i can talk to dr ramos._**

**_Do you want me to set it up? I know her times. She’s talked about meeting with you before, so I think it’d be alright._ **

**_if u want_**. Then, Bad’s last sentence filters through. **_uve talked about her seeing me?_**

**_I talk about you a lot. She thinks it’d help my sessions if she spoke with you too, even if it’s just one time._ **

Skeppy’s not quite sure what to say beyond that. It seems rather obvious that he’d be a point of discussion; it’s still strange to read it aloud.

**_Are you okay with that?_ **

Skeppy nods – then remembers, once again, that Bad can’t see him. **_yep_** he types back. **_no worries. ill go. lmk if she’s free today, im just chilling on the couch._**

**_You’re on the couch?_ **

Skeppy sucks in a breath between his teeth; he hadn’t thought that response out enough, what he might be implying. Yet Bad had seized on it anyway – did it mean something? Was it an opening?

 ** _yeah._** It’s cautious, a one-word that Bad can push on or ignore.

**_Are you sleepy?_ **

Skeppy swallows audibly. Potential and promise dances at the corners of his vision as he types back: **_yes._** Before Bad can ask another question or give a pre-emptive refusal, Skeppy adds: **_u dont have to come tho. i know this is soon._**

 ** _It’s okay,_** pops back on the screen. **_I want to try._** Then: **_Lie down and get some blankets. I’ll be out in a few minutes._**

Skeppy scrambles to obey, exhilaration and hope and more than a little apprehension all singing in his veins as he re-arranges the pillows and rushes to grab the comforter from his room. He sets up a sleeping area as quickly as he can, settling down and burrowing among the blankets and pillows as he does his best to shut his eyes and seem as fatigued and non-threatening as possible.

Ironically, adrenaline is keeping him wider awake than ever.

Bad takes his time which is – expected. It doesn’t hurt Skeppy’s feelings, doesn’t surprise him in the slightest when enough time drags by that the jitters in Skeppy’s legs begin to slow and his breathing starts to even out again. The waiting period gives him time to calm, to relax and refocus – at least, until Skeppy hears the creak of Bad’s bedroom door.

The sound of Bad’s approaching footsteps is like a series of needle pinpricks skittering up Skeppy’s arm. He doesn’t turn to look at the other, doesn’t try to lift his head from where it’s solidly buried in the pillows. His expression is out of Bad’s sight, and Bad’s is out of his.

Skeppy thinks it’ll help. He hopes.

Bad’s footsteps come to a halt before the couch and the man just – stands there. There’s no other movement, no murmur or other acknowledgement that Skeppy’s there at all. It _feels_ like Skeppy’s being watched, but he doesn’t turn to make sure.

He wonders if Bad’s regretting it. Thinking about turning around, going back to the room and typing off an apology that Skeppy will accept even with a thoroughly-crushed heart.

Skeppy’s so caught up in his thoughts, on keeping his breathing slow and controlled that only his sheer concentration keeps him from violently starting when he feels a hand brush against his cheek.

Bad’s touching him. Bad is gently, carefully running his fingers through Skeppy’s hair in the smallest of motions, stroking the cusp of Skeppy’s ear with his thumb. Skeppy has time to take in one, tiny gasp – and then the feeling is gone, Bad’s gone, hand removed and a deep feeling of longing left in its place.

The couch dips. Bad’s settling into the other end, audibly propping his feet up on the coffee table. There’s a rustling of paper, like Bad’s just opened a book; which, in hindsight, makes sense. Bad probably expects Skeppy to sleep for at least an hour – and he probably would, if he weren’t so electrically livewire right now, even if Skeppy will do everything in his power to pretend otherwise.

Skeppy’s still working on controlling his breathing, doing his best to look fast asleep when there’s another touch – this time, atop his ankle.

“Go to sleep, Skeppy.”

The command is murmured so softly, so impossibly gentle that Skeppy needs to swallow back the choked sound that rises in his throat. He clenches his eyes even tighter, curling into himself as Bad rubs small circles against his skin.

“Okay,” he whispers back, feebler than he’s ever felt.

Bad hums in acknowledgement; then the touch leaves, and Skeppy is left mourning its loss once more.

Still, it’s something. It’s more than he had. It’s Bad, here, beside him. Staying. Being with him.

That’s what he wants. Always.

Another steadying breath, an attempt to refocus and clear his mind in full. He feels alive and awake and more nervous than he’s been in weeks – but he also feels safe.

Cared for.

Maybe not trusted, maybe not yet.

But Skeppy can be patient. If Bad stays beside him – even for a little bit, even just for these moments – it feels alright. It feels like he can wait.

The blankets are warm, the pillows plush beneath his head. Bad’s presence is a comforting weight on the couch and Skeppy’s soul; bit by bit, the slow breathing becomes less controlled and more natural, evened. The clench in Skeppy’s eyes begins to slacken, as his gaze becomes gentled, lidded and fluttering.

Bad’s here. No matter how relentless, terrifying and unpleasant his dreams might become – Bad’s here. Bad’s staying beside him. Bad promised.

As long as Bad’s here, Skeppy will be okay.

For now - that’s enough.


	9. Chapter 9

His first appointment’s at noon on a Thursday.

It’s not Skeppy’s preferred time slot, about two hours earlier than when he normally wakes up, but it’s the soonest available on relatively short notice and a full five days after he’d agreed to go in the first place.

At least parking isn’t as bad as Yelp had made it out, or maybe just not many people used their lunch hours to see a psychologist. The suite of office buildings is surrounded by foliage reminiscent of a lush jungle, and there’s a rather impressive water sculpture in the main lobby occupied by a small pool of koi. Skeppy watches them swim in hypnotic circles for longer than he should.

Then again, he’d shown up fifteen minutes early. Skeppy prefers to show up later than earlier on most occasions, but this one seemed important enough to leave some buffer room for parking and… nervous pacing.

No one bats him an eye, though. By the time Skeppy tracks down the right suite, he’d only glimpsed a single woman in the halls and she hadn’t so much as glanced up from her phone at him. It’s a small comfort; he doesn’t exactly want to be noticed or questioned, but the lack of people out and about in the middle of the day makes the space feel oddly liminal.

Skeppy’s not exactly sure what he’d expected prior to opening the door. Maybe something clinical - white, sterile and reminiscent of a doctor’s office with a few _Hang In There!_ cat posters tacked on the wall. Stepping inside, however, he’s greeted by low lighting and the hum of a white noise machine tucked into the corner. There’s three plush chairs lined up in the corner and a filled magazine stand beside them. Instead of tacky motivational posters, the walls are decorated with abstract art and a few framed degrees. All in all it feels more like the waiting room to a business meeting than the space of someone professionally adjacent to a doctor.

He has little time to look around, though; as if she’d heard him enter, the door leading deeper into the office swings open and a prim-looking woman steps into view.

Doctor Ramos looks like her profile picture; black, curly hair wrapped in a tight bun and sharp eyes that sweep over Skeppy from behind horn-rimmed glasses. She’s dressed in formal business attire yet wearing flats instead of heels, and she has a notebook in arm to match the pen tucked behind her ear.

Before Skeppy can stare further, she’s stepping forward to meet him. They exchange greetings, shake hands, and then Skeppy finds himself following her into the next room and taking a seat on a wide pleather couch.

It’s just as dimly lit in here as it was outside; there’s a few blankets and pillows propped up against the couch’s armrests but Skeppy finds himself sitting directly in the middle, folding his fingers together and hunching over as mounting nerves whittle away at his composure.

He’s never done this before. He should probably say that.

She, however, doesn’t say anything. Doctor Ramos merely lowers herself into her own seat, folding one leg over the other as she scribbles out something into her notebook. She keeps writing and writing while Skeppy continues bouncing his leg nervously. Even when she’s finished, closing the notebook and directing her full attention towards him, she says nothing.

Skeppy’s lost on what to do.

So he clears his throat and offers a: “Should I start?”

Doctor Ramos inclines her head politely. “If you are ready to.”

Skeppy shifts uncomfortably on the couch, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “Okay.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“Um.” Skeppy clicks his tongue. “I don’t know.”

Doctor Ramos picks up her pen again, jotting something down; Skeppy winces at the motion. Fuck. Was that the wrong answer? Were there wrong answers to give?

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” she prompts, looking up from her notebook. “Tell me why you’re here today.”

“Um,” Skeppy repeats. Her gaze is nothing short of piercing; he finds himself looking around the room to avoid it. “My friend thought I should come talk to you.”

“Is that all?”

Skeppy blinks. “Huh?”

“Are you here for your friend?” Doctor Ramos queries, her gaze never leaving him for a second. “Or are you here for you?”

Oh.

Skeppy shifts again, rolling his shoulders – doing anything, really, to break up the monotony of sitting perfectly still. “Um. Both? I guess to talk about me. But also to help him?”

Doctor Ramos lowers her attention back to her notebook; Skeppy has to bite his tongue to keep from making a small, frustrated noise. The silence is only broken by the sound of her pen scratching across the paper before a sudden: “And what do you want to talk about, regarding yourself?”

“Um.” Fuck. He’s got to stop saying that. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” Skeppy admits. “A lot, lately.”

“Different dreams?” she asks, pen poised to strike. “Or reoccurring?”

“Reoccurring?” Skeppy asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

“The same dream,” Doctor Ramos elaborates. “The same place or event happening in your dreams repeatedly.”

“Oh. The same, I guess? There’s differences but it’s… similar?” Skeppy trains his gaze up at the ceiling; he wonders how much time has passed. How much is still left to go.

“What happens in the dreams?”

Skeppy reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. “Uh, I’m in the woods. I get attacked by a coyote but…” He winces, hesitant. “I’m guessing you already know about that whole thing?”

Doctor Ramos lowers her pen again; this time, she tucks it back behind her ear and folds her hands in her lap. “Regarding that,” she replies. “I think we should discuss the nature of this session before going further.”

Fuck. He’s definitely blowing this. “Oh?” Skeppy says weakly.

“Those in my profession do not ordinarily share information divulged by our clients during our sessions together. I understand that you were referred to me by the friend in question, and that we had previously discussed a mutual session between the two of you under the option of joint or ‘couples’ counseling.”

“Okay?” Skeppy replies uncertainly.

“However,” she continues, “it was not relayed to me prior to that discussion that you were exhibiting symptoms of trauma; this was brought up during the initial call to schedule this particular session.”

“Okay.” He feels numb, like a blow is coming.

As if reading his discomfort, Doctor Ramos offers him a kindly smile. “During an individual session, like the one we are having now, my focus is on that of the person’s best interest. For couples counseling, my focus is that of the relationship’s best interest.” She leans forward in her chair, adjusting her glasses slightly. “I wanted to take this opportunity to meet you, and to get to know you. I’d like to be able to hold individual and joint sessions with you with the focus being your relationship, should that be something you and my client wish to partake in.”

“Okay,” Skeppy repeats a third time, wringing his hands in his lap. “So what does that mean?”

“You are more than your relationship,” she replies simply. “There are complications with a single counselor seeing both parties in a relationship for individual-focused work. While I’m open to working with you this session on an introductory level, I’d like to direct you to a colleague of mine for in-depth sessions that are about _you_ and your personal needs outside of this relationship.”

“So...” His thoughts are a mess as he tries to process her words. “Um, you can’t see me?”

Doctor Ramos shakes her head. “I already have a commitment to a previous client that conflicts with seeing you one-on-one. I don’t think it’d be healthy for you to have me as your personal counselor while that exists. I think our time together is valuable when it comes to improving your relationship with my client and vice versa, but I’d like to know if you’re comfortable accepting a referral to a colleague of mine to work with on personal matters that exist outside of the relationship. So,” she sums up, “you’d have two professionals to speak with. Myself for discussions pertaining solely to your relationship, and a separate counselor for your own needs.”

Skeppy shifts again, mind racing. It’s a lot of things at once, that both do and don’t make sense. “Can I ask why? Um, I know you said, but I didn’t quite get it.”

There’s a thoughtful look; Doctor Ramos leans back in her chair and taps a nail atop her notebook. “For example,” she muses. “Let’s say we’re in a discussion about the coyote in the woods.”

“I knew you’d know about it,” Skeppy cuts in. “There’s no way he wouldn’t have told you.”

She nods, a smile quirking at the corner of her lips. “And that, there, is the complication. If you have questions regarding my client and what he might think or have said, that is something I’d usually like him to be in the room for. I am limited by the code of my profession, and you are in turn hindered by it. Those in my line of work find that attempting to see two close individuals separately while they are aware of this can lead to worry that we are being misled or favoring one of you over the other.”

“I see.” It… makes sense, on reflection. Not exactly what he wanted to hear, considering how nervous he is just with her – but the problem’s a bit obvious now that he’s looking for it. “So – what do we do, now?”

Doctor Ramos plucks her pen out from behind her ear. “We talk, as we were. I’ll get a better idea of you as a person and come up with the most appropriate recommendation I have from my list of potential referrals. For today, if you’d like, we can discuss your dreams and I can advise you on some exercises to manage their effects during and after.”

“Okay.” It’s another repeat, another two-syllable answer yet it’s all Skeppy’s got the energy for at the moment. But Doctor Ramos is reclining, pen poised over paper – watching him, waiting for him to continue when he’s ready. So Skeppy takes in a steadying breath, rolls his shoulders and just starts – talking.

It feels like babbling. Dreams are nebulous at best; sure, he’s had the _privilege_ of reliving this one over and over, but it’s still rarely well-defined. Guns, guttural snarls, and darkness are the repeating motifs. Sometimes it’s as the night happened, sometimes it’s better and Skeppy never gets lost at all. Sometimes it’s worse and Skeppy wakes up thrashing with a pain in his neck that aches with the ghost of teeth piercing his flesh. Bad is always there, except when he’s not – mostly whenever Skeppy tries to focus on the image of the man for more than a moment.

Doctor Ramos is a good listener. She prompts him when he peters off, writes down notes at the speed of sound, and follows up with insightful remarks that give Skeppy more to think about than when he started. Slowly, the initial discomfort around her wears off as Skeppy keeps talking and talking and it feels – nice. New, to be able to just spill his guts and not care what the other person is thinking. Or at least not care as much.

By the time the clock rings, Skeppy had stopped paying attention to it; the time had flown by without him realizing, and he’s getting to his feet and shaking her hand farewell with a renewed sense of ease. She hands him a list of recommendations to help manage the nightmares and tells him she’ll follow up with her colleagues to choose who to direct him to for further individual work.

“And when, um,” Skeppy asks, shifting on his feet. “When I want to talk about, uh, your client?”

“You come see me,” she says with a nod. “But I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself first. As I said, you are more than this relationship.”

Understandable. Skeppy feels like most of his anxiety comes from the schism between himself and Bad but getting a handle on the nightmares doesn’t sound like the worst idea either.

Some of his tension returns on the drive home, and he finds himself bracing when he walks in the front door. Still, the greeting _boofs_ of Rocco and the sniffing inspection from Rat help soothe his jitters as he ruffles both their heads.

Skeppy expects Bad to be in his room, which is why he finds himself coming to a halt when he sees the other man curled up on the couch.

It’s only been a few days since they’d first brought up Skeppy’s therapy appointment, but in the time between the couch had become somewhat of a – safe space? Meeting ground? Skeppy isn’t sure of the word to use, only that it’s now a rare place where Bad seems comfortable spending time with him. They still don’t really talk, not with words, but the hum of their phones in hand and mutual occupation of the cushions create a quiet atmosphere where they converse in text and soak in the other’s presence – even if still sitting a foot or so away.

There’s been a few touches, fleeting yet growing in occasion and unfathomably treasured by Skeppy himself. Bad will reach over and tap Skeppy on the shoulder for attention to be directed back to their screens. Sometimes when Skeppy lets his arm lay lax beside him, there’ll be a brush of Bad’s fingers over his own, as if the man is considering taking hold of Skeppy’s hand before deciding against it each time. Whenever Skeppy decides to curl up on the couch Bad will come and sit beside him and – so long as Skeppy puts on a convincing display of unconsciousness – every so often, there’ll be a feeling of fingers running through Skeppy’s hair.

Skeppy has no intention of disrupting that peaceful zone with the uncertainty of this moment, so he turns to begin heading towards his room when-

“Welcome back.”

It’s soft, so soft and kindly yet it grips Skeppy’s legs like a vice and makes him seize up in his tracks. A desperate glance confirms that yes, that was Bad and yes, Bad is looking at him with an expression that is equally hesitant and gentled at the same time. And then Bad scoots, sliding over on the couch a few inches to give space and it is blatant, it is an invitation that Skeppy is already stumbling towards before he can produce a coherent thought.

When Skeppy drops into the space beside Bad – still apart, still outside the bubble of personal space – he’s still looking and Bad’s meeting his gaze. It lasts for a little bit, not long enough before Bad breaks away to look down at his phone in hand. The man begins typing and Skeppy, instantly recognizing the gesture for what it is, shoves a hand in his pocket to pull out his own.

A predictable buzz, right on cue.

**_How did it go?_ **

**_good._** Boring. Give him more. **_i was nervous but she was nice._**

**_That’s good._ **

Skeppy steals a glance at Bad; the other looks like he’s concentrating, thinking of what to say next. So Skeppy fills the gap with: **_she gave me stuff to do_**

**_Like what?_ **

Good question. They’d talked about each of the options, but Skeppy’s only given a cursory glance to the physical list itself. Still, one had stuck out in his mind. **_she wants me to try sleeping with a night light lol_**

**_Me too._ **

It’s not the response Skeppy had expected. He finds himself looking up at Bad before he can stop himself; the other looks embarrassed, so he swiftly averts his gaze back to the phone. **_really?_**

 ** _Yes._** Skeppy is hyperaware of the other’s movements as Bad shifts on the couch next to him. **_Mine came in a two-pack. Do you want the extra?_**

Several questions all jump to Skeppy’s mind at once – _when_ is at the forefront, even if that’s snuffed out by the remorseful realization that he hasn’t been in Bad’s room in weeks. So he settles on the query that makes the most sense in the moment. **_do they help?_**

 ** _They helped me._** Bad’s tapping away on the screen, not looking up even when Skeppy sneaks glances in at him. **_It lets me quickly refocus on where I am when if I wake up in the middle of the night._**

 ** _she said smthng like that._** His next words are hesitant, but he taps Send anyway. **_that it might also help to have a light since my dreams are about being lost in the dark i guess?_**

**_It might. Was there anything else?_ **

**_yeah_**. Skeppy ticks through his mental list. **_dont play video games b4 bed, exercise once a day, fix my sleep schedule._**

**_You do need to fix that._ **

It might have stung had Skeppy not seen the small smile flit across Bad’s lips; the sight warms him from within as Skeppy turns his attention back to the screen.

**_but if i sleep l8 i always wake up to skittles at my door._ **

A pause. It’s a bit odd to have the conversation halt when the other is sitting right next to him. Skeppy is careful to keep his gaze lowered right now, pretending to be absorbed in idly flicking through his apps for the next minute or so.

**_I want to do more things like that for you._ **

Skeppy thumbs idly on the side of his phone; Bad’s presence beside him is both reassuring and nerve-wracking at the same time. **_i like it when u stay with me out here._**

**_I could do that more often._ **

Skeppy’s heart skips a beat before he firmly squashes it down. No hoping. Not yet. **_wat do u mean?_**

**_Spend more time out here. Sleep out here too, maybe._ **

Ah.

**_with me?_ **

It’s so hard not to look at Bad right now. Skeppy’s trying to keep his own expression schooled to semi-pleasant instead of desperate and giddy. His leg wants to bounce so badly, but he stays as still as he can.

**_I want to be near you again._ **

_Ah._

His heart is soaring; Skeppy’s fingers fumble on the keypad as sheer thrill vibrates through him - but Bad is quicker.

**_She gave me exercises to work on too, about how to feel comfortable being close again. And I don’t want you to keep feeling like I’m punishing you while I deal with this._ **

There’s a small sniffle at Skeppy’s side; his fingertips fly to respond. **_its ok. i know i fucked up._**

 ** _It’s not your fault._** Skeppy’s blood sings, his eyes widening as he reads off the next words ** _. I’m not angry anymore. Not at you._**

 ** _i dont understand_** , he confesses back. **_ur not?_**

 ** _It’s complicated_**. Another pause, before: **_I think it’s better to talk about in a session._**

 _ **ok.**_ Skeppy grimaces, before hesitantly adding: **_when can we do that?_**

 ** _Soon._** It feels like a promise. **_I’ll talk to her about the times._**

It’s – something? Skeppy wants to keep pushing, but Bad’s audibly put the phone down on the coffee table to signal the end of their discussion. The other man’s drawing his knees up to his chin, hiding his face as Skeppy sits there and wonders helplessly what to do next.

Maybe he should just do what Bad does.

It’s risky. But it feels right, natural in the moment to reach over and hesitantly place a gentle hand on Bad’s back. When there’s no start or jerk away of disapproval, Skeppy begins carefully rubbing circles with his palm. It’s meant to be soothing; he hopes it’s coming off that way.

Bad – Bad leans into the touch. There’s a soft murmur, something so quiet that Skeppy can’t quite catch it. But Bad is shifting, scooting closer bit by bit until their hips are just barely touching. His face is still hidden, still impossible to read but he’s – near. He’s here, voluntarily moving into the space until he’s so close that Skeppy can count the hairs tucked behind the man’s ear.

He’s afraid of moving too quickly, making the wrong motion that might send Bad skittering back. So Skeppy keeps rubbing gentle circles up and down Bad’s back and Bad just – lays there, leaning into him and sharing personal space for the first time in what feels like forever.

Skeppy never knew the feeling of bliss could be so terrifying.

\---

Three days later Doctor Ramos texts him with a name and a phone number, along with a short description of the referral.

Her name is Doctor Farah Hadid and based on her website, she actually works in the same set of office suites. She doesn’t have quite as robust a skillset as Doctor Ramos, but her claimed specialty is _Trauma and PTSD_ so the recommendation – makes sense. She’s got a warm smile in her picture and her hours lean later in the day, so Skeppy decides to give her a shot in good faith.

Turns out, he likes her.

She’s bubblier than Doctor Ramos; she greets him with a firm handshake and compliments his hair, which is always a plus in Skeppy’s book. The lighting in her office isn’t as dim, and the couch is more plush than pleather – he has to right himself a few times to stop sinking in too deep. The overall atmosphere is more comfortable and casual; half their first session is spent just chatting, like Skeppy’s catching up with an old friend for the first time.

If he’s being analyzed, it doesn’t feel like it. He appreciates that.

Each session is a little different, but it’s nice to just talk about his life, his friends. Even discussing some of the less comfortable aspects don’t feel like pulling teeth when he’s got such an attentive and curious listener. Yes, he gets lonely easily and yes, he can be too much of a recluse and unintentionally worsen that. And maybe she’s right – maybe that loneliness is what spurs his jealousy issues and instinctive need to guard what little he has, and why hadn’t he thought of that before? It feels simple when she says it, yet non-judgmental at the same time. Like they’re just discussing facts about Skeppy’s subconscious as plainly as the weather.

When they talk about the woods, it’s a little harder. It doesn’t feel like her fault, it’s just – unpleasant. When he tells her about Rocco, the darkness, and fear she nods and doesn’t interrupt, always waiting until he’s done before following up with queries. He braces for her to blame him for running off – yet, surprisingly, she doesn’t.

“I think most people with pets would understand the gut reaction you had,” she comments, twirling her pen between her fingers. She’s always doing that, always clicking or tapping or occupying her hands. Skeppy can relate – hard. “You moved on instinct to protect someone you loved.”

“Right?!” Skeppy replies – well, explodes as he throws his hands over his head. “It’s my dog! I mean, I know I should have, y’know, taken a light or something! But still!”

“It’s a tough situation.”

“I know,” Skeppy mutters, leaning back on the couch. “But still.”

“Are you angry at them?” she prompts.

That gets Skeppy looking back up, furrowing his brows. “What?”

“Are you angry at them?” Doctor Hadid repeats, cocking her head to the side. “That your friends were upset that you did that.”

“I-”

Is he?

The petty answer feels like an immediate yes. The thoughts that run deeper are a little more muddled. “I don’t know.”

“Why do you think they were upset with you?”

“I mean, I _get_ it,” Skeppy huffs. “I put myself in danger and they- care about me more than they care about Rocco. Which, fine. But to me, he…” Skeppy trails off. He’s not sure of the follow-up.

“It’s tricky,” Doctor Hadid muses. “What you did was not ignoble. Still, people don’t like talking about it. Pets are part of our family – but at the same time, other people don’t really extend the same understanding as if you’d put your life on the line for a human member of that family.”

“They should,” Skeppy mutters.

“Is that what you really think?” Another tilt of her head. “We spoke about your sister a bit on Monday. Do you think she might have done the same thing?”

“… Maybe?” It isn’t something Skeppy’s given thought to before. His sister’s older, a bit smarter than him – her words. And his. “She probably would have stopped to grab a flashlight, I guess. She’s also better with directions than me.”

“Do you think you’d have been understanding in that situation, if it had been her?”

“Maybe?” Skeppy repeats. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch. “I mean, she loves Rocco too. I’d have been worried, sure.”

“A step further.” Doctor Hadid perks a brow. “If your sister had given her life to save Rocco’s, even on instinct – would leaving you in a world without her be an action you’d have to forgive her for?”

“I-” The answer in his mind is instant, a gut-punch that both quells and fans his anger in equal measure. He goes silent, pursing his lips as he looks away.

“ _Love is the most selfish of all the passions_ ,” Doctor Hadid recites, wiggling her pen in the air. “Alexandre Dumas said that once. He wrote the Count of Monte Cristo, if that name sounds familiar.”

Skeppy sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not going to give me assigned reading, are you?”

“No,” she replies with a smile. “But, I think I have an idea for this week’s behavioral homework. How’s your sleep schedule been looking?”

It’s better. Skeppy’s still not close to a working man’s cycle, but waking up at 10 AM is a lot more reasonable than past noon. Sometimes he stays up a little too late working on one video or another, but he’s trying to keep those occasions as limited as possible.

The dreams aren’t exactly gone, but they’re not quite as vivid or frequent as before. Even if it’s a little childish, the night light does actually help. The pit of fear in his stomach when he lurches awake is quicker to abate when there’s enough brightness in the room to help reclarify where he is – chiefly, safe in his bed and not freezing to death in the middle of nowhere. Breathing through his nose, fixing his posture and lying back down instead of pacing relentlessly have all improved his ‘recovery period’ after any particularly unsettling nightmares.

The Bad in his dreams has been lingering around a little longer too.

The most obvious reason for that is that the real, physical Bad is spending more time with him. As they’d tentatively discussed, Bad makes a habit of hanging out on the couch and Skeppy just – soaks him in. They watch movies, text, and text about watching a movie. Sometimes Skeppy boots up his PS5 to play some games, and Bad will curl up with a blanket and Rat to watch Skeppy bash through monsters or speed through the highways on Gran Turismo. Bad takes a special interest in the latter, which Skeppy finds a little funny. Bad’s fairly meticulous about sticking to the speed limit while on the roads, but the man always gets a little unhinged when it comes to video games.

They’ve played 2P together a few times. It’s sort of a wordless agreement; Skeppy will set the controller out in front of Bad who’ll choose to either pick it up or let it lie. Even with Skeppy practicing, Bad still beats him pretty soundly on most maps – not that he minds. Hearing Bad let out triumphant little giggles is worth ten times more than a Victory screen with Skeppy’s name on it.

Spending time together while conscious is nice; drifting off beside Bad, even more so. 

The best word for it would probably be ‘sleepovers’. It’s not like they don’t spend most of their nights in their own separate rooms but once, maybe twice a week Bad will shuffle out of his den with a blanket and pillow and set up on the couch. It’s permission for Skeppy to do the same; there’s not enough room on the couch for both of them to comfortably squash together head-to-head, so he lays on one end while Bad rests on the other.

Skeppy dreams peacefully on those nights. There’s a few blips here and there, but having Bad’s warmth and presence beside him is a comfort that keeps the worst of his dreams at bay. Sure, Skeppy might wake up to the sight of Bad’s feet instead of his friend’s sleeping face and morning breath – but it’s worth it. It’s the start to a lazy day that doesn’t get moving until Bad himself has started to stir and yawn a quiet _good morning_ that Skeppy returns in full.

It’s not quite the same, not Bad sleeping in his bed and more importantly, wrapped up in his arms. But it’s closer, and it feels like they’re getting nearer to that all the time.

Bad has his own set of tasks from Doctor Ramos. While Skeppy works on daily exercise and improving his diet, Bad’s been practicing being more verbal – along with a new, more obvious piece of homework.

“I like when you hide your laughs in your arm.”

Compliments. Always starting with _I like_ and always about Skeppy – how he looks, what he does, how he acts. Bad will praise how Skeppy runs his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, how his voice pitches up and cracks when excited, how he’s been especially diligent this week about taking out the trash. Each little comment is usually accompanied with a bashful, averted gaze and a small smile; Bad’s embarrassed, hell, Skeppy’s _definitely_ embarrassed – but it’s nice. It’s really, really nice.

So he tries reciprocating back.

“I like it when you growl.”

 _That_ had earned him a funny look and Skeppy hastily backtracking with: “Not that I like making you mad!” He does, sometimes – if it’s not serious. “I meant, it’s just a cute noise? You make cute noises.”

Bad had harrumphed, still suspicious but with a tinge of pink to his ears as he’d turned away.

Skeppy tries thinking over his next compliments a little more – picking safer, more general things to praise. He lets Bad know he likes Bad’s cooking, how Bad looks when he pushes up his glasses with one finger and how Bad always has advice to give his friends, no matter the subject. Those comments seem to go over a little better; even the more tentative one where Skeppy had praised how manly Bad had looked when chopping wood had earned Skeppy a distinctly pleased expression and a brief but visible moment of preening.

Bit by bit, the awkwardness of the exchanges fades away until it becomes – commonplace. Instead of kisses, they exchange compliments when they pass each other by. Instead of firmly grasping the other’s hand, there’s light brushes of fingers ghosting over knuckles as they sit beside each other on the couch. It’s familiar yet painfully new all at once, like they’re relearning how to be – or molding into something new.

Skeppy’s not sure which it is. He wants to, though.

It’s been close to two weeks since Bad had mentioned asking Doctor Ramos for a joint session; there hasn’t been any visible follow-up, but Skeppy doesn’t know for certain. He hasn’t gone to see her since their first session – he probably should, but Hadid’s been comforting while Ramos… scares him. Not as a person, but what she stands for. What she knows, what Bad’s told her. What a session with them both might reveal and the underlying risk that it might damage the fragile peace they currently have.

He understands better now why she’d insisted he see someone else, too.

Still, it might be time to press and see if Bad’s actually okay with making an appointment. The timing and location have to be right; the obvious choice is once again the couch, but the _when_ is trickier. Starting a potentially emotional discussion isn’t something Skeppy wants to bring up and disrupt rare, intimate moments like when Bad leans close enough to rest his head on Skeppy’s shoulder.

So once again Skeppy plans, and he waits. He picks a day where they’ve both gone without any uncomfortable snafus, where Bad seems to be in a good mood and has a full belly of pizza to keep him happy. He watches his friend snuggle comfortably into his blankets and pretends to be as invested in Demon Souls as Bad seems to be. Skeppy’s piss-poor performance in the game might have given away his distracted state – if dying to the Adjudicator fifty times in a row hadn’t been the norm by now.

He might need to look up a guide at this point.

After his fifty-first death, Skeppy hits pause and lets out a heavy sigh. He sets the controller down, leaning back into the couch and stretching his arms above his head with a groan. “This boss sucks, dude.”

“You should try sticking to the upper platforms.” Bad’s voice is quiet and thoughtful, but there’s light amusement beneath it. “Keep your back to the doorway.”

“Maybe.” Skeppy drops his arms back down to his sides, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing again. “Fuck, my thumbs are sore.”

“Language,” Bad chides, but his tone is mild. The rebuke is rare off-screen, more habitual than sincere. “Let me see.”

And then Bad does something Skeppy doesn’t expect, hadn’t dreamed of – he reaches over and takes Skeppy’s hand in his own.

It’s not – it’s not holding hands, because Bad isn’t lacing their fingers together. Instead, the other is splaying Skeppy’s hand flat on his own palm, rubbing at Skeppy’s joints and tugging lightly on each finger, one by one. It’s an odd, yet impossibly tender massage that would probably feel amazing if Skeppy could focus on it, focus on anything at all that isn’t the simple sensation of Bad’s touch on his skin.

Skeppy is once again blindsided, reduced to staring blankly as Bad repeats his gentle ministrations over and over before switching over to the next hand. Somewhere between Skeppy’s index joint being rubbed and his thumb being squeezed, the words: “I want to kiss you,” are breathed into the air.

It’s bizarre to hear aloud. Doubly so, because Skeppy isn’t sure which one of them said it.

The words, toneless yet deafening hang between them. Bad has ceased all movement but Skeppy can’t read him, can’t do anything but continue staring straight down at his hand in Bad’s. There’s no more gentle press or pull on his fingers, no trace of anything but a slight tremor in his hands – or maybe Bad’s.

When had they gotten like this? When had they gotten so close and entangled that Skeppy can no longer tell them apart?

He doesn’t dare make the first move – but he doesn’t have to. Slowly, methodically Skeppy watches his hand rise atop Bad’s; he braces, assuming the worst, that Bad is going to let the touch drop, stand and move away because Skeppy – was it Skeppy? – has once again crossed the boundaries Bad has so carefully lain out.

Instead, Bad leans forward and brushes a gentle kiss atop Skeppy’s knuckles.

The man’s gaze is lidded, lowered even as he lifts his head and rubs a thumb over the spot that still lingers with the ghost of the kiss. The sensation is - indescribable. The warmth of Bad’s breath had faded all too quickly, but there’s heat churning in Skeppy’s stomach and cheeks, a roaring sound in his ears that’s deafening the short, shallow breaths that Skeppy’s struggling to take in.

Should he? Is he allowed?

He wants to.

Skeppy takes his hand back - only to gently, carefully capture Bad’s in his own. He lifts Bad’s hand to his lips with the barest hint of a pause, waiting for the refusal, the feeling of Bad quickly jerking out of Skeppy’s grasp.

Bad doesn’t fight him, so Skeppy cranes his neck to press a kiss of his own against the back of Bad’s hand.

It feels really, really, really-

Nice.

Skeppy’s not sure how long he remains like that, breathing in and out as he tries to remember how exactly they’d gotten like this, why he’s being allowed to kiss even this small piece of Bad – and then Bad’s hand is moving, reaching to cup the side of Skeppy’s cheek so tenderly that it leaves his heart stuttering in his chest. A thumb is swiping back and forth along the curve of his chin and Skeppy’s eyes flutter shut, head lolling forward to lean into the touch.

“Come here,” Bad murmurs, and Skeppy has never been happier to blindly slump forward.

They fall together messily – they always do, it seems. Somehow with a glazed-over brain and the barest hint of a thought, Skeppy manages to maneuver his body and lay his head in the crook of Bad’s shoulder. He ends up tucked between the cushions and Bad himself, resting halfway atop the smaller man with his arm draped loosely over Bad’s chest. He feels snug, warm. Secure.

It feels unreal; he might be dreaming. It might be a fantasy, unbroken even by the tiny pinch Skeppy gives himself to test.

Skeppy can’t bring himself to care.

Bad cranes an arm to grasp at the edge of the blanket, pulling it up and over them before settling back down and looping an arm around Skeppy’s waist. His other hand comes up, brushing the hair back from Skeppy’s face as they share what seems to be a mutually dazed look. Then Bad’s eyes close, a soft sound escaping his lips as the other man lies back and quietly exhales into the silence that’s fallen.

It’s a good silence. Maybe it’s as fragile as Skeppy feels but it’s not deafening, suffocating. It’s peaceful. It’s new.

Skeppy breaks it anyway.

“I fucking love Doctor Ramos so much right now.”

Embarrassing. Another blurted out half-thought that makes Skeppy wince as soon as it hits air – but then there’s a snort, loud and unapologetic as Bad’s chest vibrates with laughter.

“Oh my goodness,” Bad mutters, voice overwhelmingly fond. “Skeppy…”

“Sorry.” Skeppy finds himself grinning against Bad’s chest, delight tickling at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, I just-”

“I know.” Bad’s fingers are back, gently carding through Skeppy’s already-mussed hair. “It’s okay.”

“I-” Skeppy licks his lips; this isn’t the scenario he’d even dreamed of having this conversation in – but it feels like it fits. “I’d like to see her, again. With you.”

The touch slows, but doesn’t still.

“Together?” Bad’s voice is a murmur – inquisitive, gentled. Not angry. Not reluctant.

“Yeah.” Skeppy tightens and relaxes his grasp on Bad’s shirt. “Talking about it, with you. And her.”

Bad goes quiet again. Still, he keeps stroking his fingers through Skeppy’s locks through the silence; it feels better than stillness, than nothing. It feels like a show of care as Bad takes the time to think.

“I know I said we would soon.” Bad’s words are careful and methodical. “I just wanted to make sure you had the time you needed for you, for your own problems.”

“I’ve had it,” Skeppy promises. “I’m ready.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Skeppy swallows, fingers clenching tight. “Please.”

Bad sighs, low and quiet. Skeppy holds his breath before Bad finally murmurs back:

“Okay.”

“Soon?” Skeppy presses immediately, hopefully.

“This week.” Bad’s fingers trail to brush the cusp of Skeppy’s ear. “If she’s available.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you.” Skeppy burrows his face deeper against Bad, hiding his embarrassingly shy smile out of sight. “For that. And, tonight. In general.”

Bad hums in reply. There’s some shifting as Bad turns onto his side, looping both arms around Skeppy’s chest. Bad has to scoot up a bit, but manages to tuck his chin atop Skeppy’s head before letting out a deeper, longer sigh that ruffles through Skeppy’s hair in the best kind of way.

It’s a reversal of their usual position.

Skeppy is not fucking complaining.

He’s not sure if they’re going to stay like this tonight. It’s unclear if Bad is settling in for a short stay or if the man intends on drifting off like this. But for once - Skeppy keeps his mouth shut. He’s not going to question or clarify; he has zero intention of potentially rousing Bad with even the softest of mutters. Bad is warm and firm against him, cradling Skeppy with a level of care that is choking him with emotion. Skeppy has to repeatedly swallow around the lump in his throat just to try and keep his breathing even.

It doesn’t matter. Skeppy’s not budging, not making a single peep.

They don’t have to talk tonight. He doesn’t need to break the quiet that’s settling over the room.

For once, for tonight – Skeppy doesn’t hate the silence.


	10. Chapter 10

They sit in the car for twenty minutes.

While the week had started softly with shy touches and praise murmured into each other’s skin, they’d been increasingly tense leading up to the day of their appointment. The dawn of the ‘final day’ had been no different; breakfast had been quiet and mutual glances went quickly averted. Waiting for time to pass, for the clock to tick closer and closer had been agony and no amount of video games or YouTube videos had provided a lasting distraction. Skeppy’s knees had been in a semi-permanent state of bouncing and Rat had looked almost worn from how closely Bad had been clutching her all day.

It’s not surprising when, without discussion, Bad had picked up his keys from the kitchen counter forty minutes before their appointment, and started heading towards the door. Skeppy, without question or rebuttal, had pulled himself up off the couch and shuffled after him.

Now, thirty minutes later and sitting motionless in their seats, not a word has been spoken. It doesn’t feel like an angry silence, it’s just – taut, like a pulled string. Blatantly mutual nerves are shuddering at the prospect of a talk they’d been putting off for weeks.

But they needed to talk. They’d always needed to, even if the better moments hadn’t felt like it.

Skeppy voices no complaints about the rising temperature in the car and the stuffiness of the air. Bad is staring straight ahead, visibly working himself up as his fingers drum rapidly on the steering wheel. He does this when he’s thinking – the lack of blinking is a little new, but understandable in a state of total focus. Skeppy himself feels oddly loose, slackened with a fatigue that pre-emptively precedes the incoming emotional exhaustion. He’s just slumped in his seat, waiting for the inevitable and gazing out the window as the trees rustle in a breeze he quietly longs to feel.

He’s not moving, though. Not until Bad’s ready.

When the car’s clock ticks to five minutes til, Bad seems to finally break out of his reverie. The locks on the car lift and the driver-side door opens; Bad pushes himself out of his seat and Skeppy moves to do the same on his own side.

As the doors slam and the car beeps affirmatively, Skeppy breathes in crisp winter air and smells a tinge of smoke on the breeze.

Familiar, and strangely fitting.

The sound of Bad’s retreating footsteps pulls his attention back and Skeppy turns to follow the other man into the building.

The route through the suites is familiar. Doctor Hadrid’s office is only six doors down from Ramos’ own; Skeppy’s never run into her, not even once, and he finds himself counting his blessings for that. He’s not sure what he would have said if he’d run into her alone or worse, Bad leaving an appointment as Skeppy’d entered his own. They’ve never set up a schedule to purposefully avoid one another, but the prospect of an accidental encounter is – unappealing.

In his gut, Skeppy feels the same way about the door to Doctor Ramos’ office as it stands before him, tall and imposing in a way that doesn’t make _logical_ sense. But despite whatever misgivings and nerves they both might have, Bad is still walking in. So Skeppy straightens his shoulders, steels himself with gritted teeth and once again follows after his friend.

The waiting room hasn’t changed. Still formal, still filled with the noise machine’s underlying hum. Skeppy thinks there might be a new split in the pleather on one of the chairs, but he might just not have cared to notice the first and only time he’s been here.

Skeppy tries to occupy himself and his fidgeting hands with the metal tip of his zipper, but yet again Dr. Ramos doesn’t make them wait long. The door to her inner office swings open after only a moment, and her slim yet imposing form fills the frame.

“Good afternoon.” She offers a polite smile and extends her hand; they each give it a firm shake before she’s escorting them in and closing the door behind her.

The click of the lock feels deafening.

They take their seats on the pleather couch; Bad sits on the left, Skeppy on the right. They’re not close enough to touch, but neither is Bad cramming himself as far away as possible – so Skeppy sort of settles near the middle and once again folds his hands in his lap.

Doctor Ramos lowers into her own chair and promptly folds one leg over the other. She’s got her usual notebook in her lap and pen in hand, poised to strike; mercifully, she does not let the pair of them languish in silence this time. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” she remarks – Skeppy assumes this has to be aimed at him. “How are your sessions progressing with Doctor Hadid?”

“Good.” It’s an instinctive answer, yet still one that gets his thumbs nervously twiddling together. “She’s nice. I like her.”

“And your overall welfare has been improving?”

“I think so.” Skeppy shifts in his seat, trying to hold her calmly inquisitive gaze for more than a few seconds. “I feel better, I guess. Less bad dreams.”

“That’s good to hear.” As Doctor Ramos looks down to scribble something in her notebook, Skeppy shoots a quick glance over at Bad; the other man is still as a post, a placid yet firm expression frozen in place. Not much to read on, but probably not a bad sign?

“So,” Doctor Ramos continues, lifting her head up again. “I understand this is our first joint session together.” Her gaze slides to Bad. “We’ve outlined possible paths of discussion prior to this.” Then, her attention is back on Skeppy. “Is there anything you yourself seek to specifically get out of this session?”

“Specifically?” Skeppy repeats.

Doctor Ramos tilts her chin upward and utters a simple: “Why are you here today?”

It’s blunt, yet fathomlessly open at the same time. The question has Skeppy’s foot still mid-bounce as the thousands of possible answers flood and recede from his mind at once. It’s harder to pick one, pick what might be best to say when he’s all too aware of Bad’s presence on the other end of the couch – Bad, who is listening to everything, right down to what feels like Skeppy’s audibly racing pulse.

“I…” Skeppy licks his lips, trying to slow his words before they tumble without thought. “I want to… help. Make this better. I mean we’re, we’re doing better, I think. But, I know there’s more. To do. I don’t…” Hesitation stalls his tongue. “Understand? Completely. I mean, I know, I get it, I fucked up, I fucked up badly-”

“Can you elaborate?” Doctor Ramos interrupts; her tone is kind, not rebuking. “What do you mean when you say you ‘fucked up’?”

It’s kind of funny, hearing the crude words come out of such a visibly prim and proper person. In another situation, it might have been enough to draw a real chuckle from him. As it stands, all it gets is a weak smile and Skeppy’s gaze lowering down to his feet.

“Um…” He inhales to steady himself; the thought is absurd, but he feels so hyperaware in this moment that he can almost taste Bad’s scent on his tongue. “A couple things? I ran off after my dog and uh, got really lost and put myself in a lot of danger. I didn’t leave a note or bring a light which was really stupid by itself, but then a coyote attacked and I tried to protect my dog first instead of myself which was also really stupid, so.” Skeppy clenches and twists his fingers together, not daring to look up. “Yeah. Like I said, I fucked up. I didn’t think and I hurt a lot of people and I was just – really, really stupid.”

There’s a gentle hum from Doctor Ramos; Skeppy expects her to continue, probing for more. Instead, she follows with: “Do you agree with that sentiment?”

It’s – not aimed at him. It’s for Bad, definitively so when Skeppy glances up and sees her looking straight at the other man. Skeppy can feel Bad shift ever so slightly on the cushions, and a deeper silence follows for what feels like too long.

“No.”

There’s a lot of emotion choked up in that one word. It brings Skeppy’s gaze up and over and Bad is still rigid, still taut with tension. Yet his lower lips quivers, ever so slightly; when their eyes meet for only a second, Bad sharply turns his head away and Skeppy quickly does the same.

“No,” Doctor Ramos repeats gently. “Can you tell us why you disagree?”

More silence, but it feels purposeful. Bad sits motionless; whatever inner dialogue he’s going through, it’s wordless and without so much as a twitch of his leg. Skeppy tries to control his own movements, keep his jittering foot as unobtrusive as possible as the room just – waits for Bad to speak.

“I don’t think,” Bad begins, every word slow and stilted. “that you’re stupid. I think…” Bad pauses, exhaling audibly before continuing: “I think you could have… done some things better. But. I understand. You were worried. And you did it, without thinking. I don’t think. That makes you stupid. You cared about someone close, to you.” Another, deeper inhale. “I understand, that.”

It’s – good to hear. Still fragile, still uncertain but aren’t they both at this point?

Doctor Ramos’ gaze slides back to him; Skeppy nearly flinches under its weight. “And how,” she queries, “does that make you feel?”

It’s cliché. Yet absurdly fitting, even a tad humorous as Skeppy once again shifts in his seat. “Um.” How _does_ he feel? “Confused, I guess.” His foot is a drumbeat on the carpet. “When we, um, had the first fight, on the night back. He said-”

_Then maybe you just mean more to me than I mean to you._

Skeppy swallows, gaze dropping back to the carpet. “That he _didn’t_ understand. And that I…”

It feels accusatory to say aloud. It feels like tugging on the string and he really, really doesn’t want to. But he can feel two pairs of eyes upon him, waiting for his next words. They should probably be the truth.

“That, if I understood if he’d done the same thing, then I didn’t…” Skeppy clenches his eyes shut. “Didn’t. Care about him, as much as he cared about me.”

There’s a small sound from Bad’s direction. It’s impossible to place and in this moment Skeppy can’t bear to look at anything but the patterns in the carpet.

The scratching of pen on paper is the only noise that fills the room for the next few seconds. When it ceases, Doctor Ramos breaks the quiet with: “Do you feel that’s true?”

It’s unclear which of them it’s aimed at. It’s not a question Skeppy wants to acknowledge; both potential answers feel loaded, and the truthful _I don’t know_ doesn’t seem like it’ll get them anywhere. He doesn’t have long to think it over, though – because Bad’s answering for him.

“No.”

The reply is firm, even as Bad all but whispers it. Skeppy wants to look up at him, wants to be able to meet the other’s gaze. But it feels too dangerous, risky when weighed against the tremor in Bad’s voice.

“No,” Doctor Ramos repeats thoughtfully. “You don’t feel that’s true?”

Bad clears his throat, the couch dipping under his weight as he readjusts his posture. “I don’t think that.” His voice is hoarse, the words rasped as if each one pains him. “I was angry. But I understood. I understand. I was just.” Another cough, more _hm-hm_ ing as Bad clears his throat again. “I,” he continues roughly, “I was so angry, I wanted to be angry. I didn’t mean, that you didn’t care. Only, if you... if you hadn’t been upset. In that situation, but me, if I had – done it, and you weren’t angry. Then it felt like, you wouldn’t have cared. And I cared, care. S-so much.”

Skeppy bites the inside of his cheek hard, just shy of drawing blood. The stutter in Bad’s voice is back; the air is thick with renewed tension as he turns Bad’s words over in his mind. Doctor Ramos isn’t interrupting, isn’t prompting further. It’s just him and Bad, and the events of that night darkening the corners of his vision.

“I understand why you were angry,” Skeppy finally murmurs back. “Why you’re still angry.”

“I’m not.”

The interruption is unexpected; it’s both reassuring and frustrating in startling tandem. Skeppy mutters: “You are, though.”

“I’m not,” Bad repeats, as firmly as he can in the weakest voice imaginable.

“You won’t-” Temper will do him no good here. Truth is all that matters. He has to trust Bad is _trying_ to give that to him. “You say that,” Skeppy says, slowing his words to cool the flare of his own anger. “But, I mean, you have to be, at least a little. To still be like this.”

“I’m not mad at you.” It’s said like a promise, half-pleaded. “It’s not you.”

“Then who?” Skeppy asks, exasperation flinging his hands briefly into the air. “Rocco? The coyote?”

“Myself.”

That brings Skeppy’s gaze up, lifting to affix Bad with a stare of disbelief – and receiving a fragile, exhausted one in return. The other man isn’t crying, but his face is pinched with emotion and there’s a very familiar set to Bad’s jaw that tends to precede the start of a sob.

It’s as clear a sign as any that Skeppy needs to pull back.

Skeppy looks away again, back down to the floor. Back to focusing on the feeling of his thumbs twiddling together, on the clench of his fingers and tapping of his foot on the ground. Attention returned to the way his chest moves when he takes in purposefully slow breaths and how he can hear the faint hum of the noise machine, even through a closed door.

He lets the silence linger, giving them both time to compose themselves.

Doctor Ramos says nothing. She’s writing, audibly taking notes, but she isn’t interrupting whatever _this_ is – for now, at least.

So it falls to Skeppy.

“I don’t understand.” It’s the safest, most carefully stated reply he can manage. When there’s no choked hiccup, no sniffle that follows, Skeppy cautiously continues with: “I’m not mad at you. Why would you be angry at yourself?”

Another noise. This one is shriller, oddly – or perhaps sensibly – pained. It’s not enough for Skeppy to reply to, gives him nothing more than another flicker of confusion before Doctor Ramos primly clears her own throat.

“In our individual discussions,” she remarks, “we’ve broached several sensitive topics. One of which, I’ve been informed, you’ve already been privy to in at least partial detail.” A pause, like she’s gauging the bewilderment on Skeppy’s face. “Anger can stem from many places. Not all of it, from the present.”

“I don’t understand,” Skeppy repeats; she’s easier to look at now, her expression purposefully gentled. “He shouldn’t-”

“I lost someone.”

The words, as quiet as they are, are enough to instantly seal Skeppy’s lips and turn his gaze back to Bad. The other’s voice is oddly monotone, as if fighting to keep any emotion from his words will help steel the expression on his face. Bad is staring straight ahead, brow furrowed in determination that feels at odds with the small quiver of his lower lip.

It’s – not news, not exactly. It’s not something they’ve talked about, not directly, never at length. It’s knowledge that had been given on the latest, most sleep-deprived of talks that Skeppy hadn’t really – internalized? Given long thought to? It had felt private, had gone unexplained and he hadn’t pushed because it hadn’t been his business.

There’s a lot Bad keeps to himself.

“I struggled,” Bad continues carefully, hoarsely. “For so long. I didn’t- know. What had happened. And I hurt. While not knowing. And even after, when I did.”

“I-”

“In the woods,” Bad continues and Skeppy clams up, closes his mouth because this isn’t his time to speak, this isn’t the moment to interrupt. “I didn’t know, what had happened to you. I came back and you were gone, and not knowing…” More silence. More of Bad struggling, thinking over words in a way that Skeppy can hear through every stuttered breath. “Not knowing took me back there. To the days, weeks. To that _feeling_. The hurt, how it felt back then. And the feeling wouldn’t, didn’t go away. Even after. It’s less, but.” A swallow, thick and audibly painful. “Even now.”

Skeppy stares down at his feet, counting out his own heartbeats as they drum inside his ears. It feels like he shouldn’t be listening to this.

Bad needs him to.

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared once more – Bad’s, low and guttural. Then: “I was angry at you. But I was also angry because it, it wasn’t your fault that I felt like this, so much. That I was s-scared, to be close to you. To go through that, again. To care for someone, you. Because you might d-disappear too.”

“I won’t.” The promise feels desperate, as feverish as he feels in this moment. “I won’t do that.”

“You might.” A sniffle and oh, the sound drives Skeppy’s eyes shut, leaves him half-curling over in his seat.

“I won’t.” Firmer, forced out from gritted teeth. “I won’t leave you.”

A short puff of laughter, strained and thin. “That’s not something anyone can promise.”

Before Skeppy can protest, Doctor Ramos taps her pen against her knee. “Loss,” she muses, “can come at any time, to anyone. It is one of the most feared and inevitable experiences of the human condition. Even the strongest of us struggle with the concept of opening ourselves to caring for someone or something against the finality of its loss.”

“I’m not-” Skeppy tightens his grip on his own fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. If this is about being more careful, I already-”

“It’s not,” Bad interrupts with another weak laugh. Is that good? Is it good to laugh right now? It feels better than crying. “Yes, you- you definitely gave me several heart attacks with things like the mattress video-”

“So I won’t!” Skeppy pleads. “I’m not doing that anymore-”

“This isn’t _that_.” Bad’s voice is stronger, more certain even underlain with the occasional sniff. “I don’t _want_ to change you. I like you as you are. You need to think some things through a little more, but-”

“Then what do I-?!” Skeppy swallows back his frustration, his bubble of hysterical laughter at the fact that they’ve gone from weeks of silence to constantly talking over the other. “I don’t know what to _do_. You keep saying you’re not mad, now I don’t need to change- then what makes this _better_? What do I do to **_help_** you?”

“You can’t help me.” The words are a finality, even if gentled. They feel cold and crushing, sapping the air from Skeppy’s lungs. His stubborn protests and insistent demands wither and die in his throat at Bad’s refusal of – help? Change? Skeppy himself? There’s a barely-bottled scream threatening to slip past his lips before Bad quietly continues: “This isn’t your mess to fix.”

“It’s mine.” Doctor Ramos is looking between them both; she’d gone so quiet that Skeppy’d nearly forgotten she was there. “In that, it is my job - and Doctor Hadid’s - to talk clients through traumatic experiences and find ways to heal from them. And, from what I’ve been told, you both feel as if your relationship has been improving since we four began sessions.”

“We’re better,” Skeppy protests, the refusal bitter on his tongue. “We’re not _fixed_.”

“These things take time.” Doctor Ramos inclines her head towards Bad. “And the will to work towards betterment, which you have both expressed and executed. This session is not and was never meant to be a finale. It is one of many days to come, for all of us.”

“It can’t just be talking.” Yes, they’d needed to talk but – it can’t be only that. He needs to, has to do more. It’s been too much build-up, too much worry and tension and Bad’s deep-rooted pain lain out bare for Skeppy to just – do nothing with it. “There has to be something I can do.”

“You have.” It’s Bad’s turn now, Bad’s gentled voice in his ear and drawing Skeppy’s attention back over. “You waited. You listened. It’s more than I deserved-”

“No it _wasn_ ’ _t_ -”

“And I’m going to keep getting better,” Bad continues, unabashed. “I’m going to keep working at it. I like what we’re doing, what we’ve been doing. I don’t need you to change, Skeppy. I just wanted you to understand and…” Bad shifts, still holding Skeppy’s helpless gaze. “It’s still hard to talk about. But I wanted to do it, here.”

“I don’t- I mean, you don’t, have to,” Skeppy fumbles. “I get it, that’s- yours, I mean, I’ll listen-”

“I know.”

“But I want you to feel better.”

Bad smiles at him – really smiles, even blinking back the first specks of tears. “I will. And I want you to feel better, too.”

“I’ll feel better when you feel better.”

“And I’ll feel better when _you_ feel better.”

“Well, I’ll feel better when **_you_** feel-”

“Perhaps,” Doctor Ramos interrupts smoothly, “we can reach an agreement on mutual benefits to improvements in your respective lives. But in the meantime,” and now her gaze is back on Skeppy, piercing and calming in one simple glance. “We can review a few exercises we’ve agreed on, to help put your mind at ease and give you something tangible to work towards.”

Skeppy nods; beside him, Bad does the same.

“Good.” Doctor Ramos clicks her pen, tapping at her notebook. “Now, I’ve been told there’s been some trading going back and forth involving Skittles?”

\---

It’s a lot of talking.

A lot of back and forth, of Skeppy fumbling through his thoughts and being listened to no matter how distracted and nonsensical he feels he’s being. It’s sitting back and waiting as Bad speaks and takes frequent breaks in order to compose himself. Skeppy knows Bad’s an emotional speaker, knows Bad is quick to cry even in mildly stressful situations – so it’s fine. He can wait through Bad needing a few moments to calm down, especially when discussing some of the most difficult things he’s heard the man say.

A lot of it doesn’t feel like his business. What Bad describes to him is intimately personal and raises goosebumps along Skeppy’s arm. It’s something Skeppy almost doesn’t want to hear, but has to know. It’s what Bad needs him to understand, and Skeppy does. He gets it almost instantly as Bad describes a past that has only been mentioned in off-hand snippets, never in depth. It’s stressful, emotionally taxing to live through those moments even second-hand – but he gets it.

Being left alone is hard. Uncertainty, loss – he doesn’t like thinking about it. And he hadn’t been, maybe hadn’t been trying to think about how Bad might have felt night in detail. Yes, he might have been freezing to death in the woods and yeah, it feels nice to hear Bad acknowledge how hard that must have been. But it’s equally difficult to hear the other side; what it’d been like to deal with the possibility, the terror of not knowing if they’d ever see each other again.

_You knew, even if you were in danger, that I was safe. But I didn’t get the comfort of knowing that about you._

It’s a long session. Two hours drifts by, double the length of Skeppy’s own sessions. But it doesn’t feel like it’s dragging, like there’s silences that serve no purpose. It’s explaining, listening. Hurting, ripping the scabs off wounds old and new to let them breathe. A necessary pain that has them drifting closer and closer until their fingers are brushing against each other on the couch.

Doctor Ramos doesn’t comment on it. When their two hours are up and the buzz of the timer cuts through the air, she merely rises from her seat and shakes their hand one last time before guiding them out the door.

“I look forward to seeing you again,” is her polite farewell; Skeppy’s not certain he can say the same, but he knows from the weakness in his smile that this won’t be their last session.

Walking back to the car is an exercise in exhaustion; by the time they both buckle in and slump into their seats, Skeppy’s ready to sleep for a week. He feels like he’s been put through the wringer, physically and emotionally – and again, he’d just been sitting on a couch for two hours.

Bad doesn’t follow up with any comments, any comforting squeezes or touch so Skeppy starts to zone out as the car rumbles back to life. He stares vacantly out the window, watching his breath fog on the glass as the sun begins to slip below the horizon and pink-tinted skies fade into darker hues of blue.

They can’t quite see the stars as clearly from the city, not like the brilliant view from the campsite – but it’s still nice. Still pretty enough to enjoy, even zipping by at thirty miles an hour.

Skeppy isn’t really paying attention to the roads, to anything but the sky overhead – so it takes him a while to realize. Sure, the turns and subsequent slide of his body against the seat isn’t familiar, but Bad might take a different route home than him. It’s not anything Skeppy bothers to take stock of until he hears a turn signal click in time with the car beginning to slow; after a blink and a quick scan of their surroundings, Skeppy realizes that Bad’s pulling the car over.

This isn’t their home. This isn’t even their street.

It doesn’t look like much of anything, really. They’re in the suburbs, at least on one side of the road. The other just looks like a sprawling… field? Park? It’s hard to tell, hard to see anything in the quickly fading light other than the large grassy hill that slopes up from the sidewalk Bad is parking them against. There’s no one about; as far as Skeppy can tell, Bad hadn’t pulled over to assist anyone.

So why-?

The keys turn and the car dies down; Bad’s unbuckling without a hint of discomfort, like pulling over in the middle of nowhere is completely normal. When Skeppy shoots him a bewildered look, Bad meets him with a calm smile and a quiet: “It’s okay. I want to show you something.”

Cryptic. Good cryptic? About to be murdered cryptic? Probably not the latter, but Skeppy still feels uneasy as he follows Bad and exits the car.

Skeppy goes to stand on the sidewalk as Bad heads to the back of the car, popping the trunk to begin rummaging around inside. He pulls out two – electric lanterns? The sight is familiar; they’re the same as the ones they’d brought on the camping trip. The sight makes Skeppy’s guts twist nervously, but Bad’s smile is still placid and reassuringly calm. He offers one out to Skeppy, who takes it with no small amount of hesitation.

“Why do we-?”

“This way,” Bad replies, motioning with his free hand. And then Bad’s off, heading into the grass and up the hill with the clear expectation that Skeppy is to do the same.

In the middle of nowhere, approaching night. With no explanation and two lamps to their name.

The most absurd thing is how easy it is to just… follow right on after. His trust in Bad is just that implicit.

Or maybe Skeppy’s just too tired and brittle to care.

It’s not a long walk. Bad takes him to the top of the hill, over the crest and a few feet down before stopping in his tracks. Bad then lowers himself down, settling into the grass and propping up the lamp beside him. He looks up, waving a hand and beckoning Skeppy to do the same. Because Bad is asking, because Bad wants him to, Skeppy reluctantly lowers himself into the grass and slightly-damp mud that is sure to stain his jeans. And then he just… sits there, sits next to Bad as night falls deeper around them, abated only by the glow of their twin lanterns.

It’s – nice? Pretty, in a way. Skeppy can see far out over the field, park, whatever this is. There’s a lot of grass, a few patches of weeds but overall the grounds look well-kept. A line of trees frames the background, obscuring what looks to be another set of buildings far to the east. There’s no fences, just wide-open space to enjoy this small speck of nature that looks to have been carved and preserved amongst suburbia. Even the lack of sunlight seems to improve the view; the lanterns give him enough to see by, but the darker shades of night and the occasional waft of crisp, cool wind create an atmosphere that is surprisingly calming.

The stars still aren’t as brilliant as the view from their campsite, but the tiny specks of white light scattered amongst the cloud cover is enough to capture Skeppy’s attention while pleasant silence stretches between them.

“I come here a lot.” Skeppy glances over; Bad’s chin is tilted up too, tired eyes gazing heavenward. “After my sessions.”

“Why?” It’s an impulsive question, perhaps even rude; after hours of truth-telling, Skeppy’s filter is feeling especially unfettered. “Sorry, I mean, it’s nice, just-?”

It’s not much of anything. Pretty, sure. But it’s not home.

Bad shrugs; as another gust of wind ruffles his hair he shifts on the grass, drawing his knees up to his chest. “Doctor Ramos told me about it,” he replies. “She thought it might be good immersion.”

Skeppy tilts his head. “Immersion?”

Bad nods his head in gesture at the fields. “Spending time in nature, at night. Protected from the stares of others,” he then glances over his shoulder and it’s true – the hill shields them from view of passing cars. “But not so far that I don’t know where I am or how to get back.”

“Oh.” It – makes sense. It also draws up a new, more uncomfortable question. “Do you- not like being out at night, now?”

“I never did much.” The reply comes easily, unashamed. “I mean, I liked shopping at night. It’s quiet, nobody bothers me. But it was a little harder to be alone in the dark, the first week or so after we got back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing.” Bad runs his hands through the grass and Skeppy’s eyes track the motion. “I’m not mad. It’s okay.”

“I know.” Skeppy watches as Bad’s fingers curl, plucking out a single blade of grass at the root. “But I still feel like saying it.”

Bad hums; he twiddles the blade between his fingers before dropping it back to the ground. “Me too. I’m sorry for acting like I did, and shutting you out like that without telling you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Bad lifts his gaze back to the stars. “I was just scared. I was afraid of hurting both of us more by forcing myself back before I could bear it.”

“I know.” God, does he know. Skeppy still feels unsettled when he thinks of what Bad’s been through, what Bad’s been hurt by. He _gets_ it, even if the distance between them still hurt, even if Bad’s the one looking for forgiveness. “I’m glad we’re… better. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Bad’s shifting, lowering himself onto his back. He lays down flat in the grass, arms slightly spread and fingers splayed as he stares up at the sky and Skeppy stares back at him. Bad looks pretty like this; eyes softened by fatigue, hair ruffled from the gentle breeze. He looks gentled, in and out – and he’s here, laying beside Skeppy with walls that have finally, finally begun to lower.

The glow of the lanterns glints off his glasses and Skeppy is once again struck by the impulsive desire to just lean down and kiss him.

He doesn’t, though.

The tacit permission still isn’t back yet.

It’s that lack, that yearning that has: “I want to be closer,” spilling past Skeppy’s lips and drawing a small smile from Bad in return. Bad beckons him with a slight wave of his hand, gesturing for Skeppy to come in – well, closer. It’s not what Skeppy had meant, it’s too literal against a metaphorical desire but it’s by no means a bad compromise. So Skeppy scoots over, laying down hip to hip and lowering himself into the grass beside Bad, only to feel the other man’s fingers catch on his shoulder. Bad gently angles him over and down, until Skeppy once again finds his head cradled in the groove of Bad’s shoulder and his body tucked up against the other man.

It’s close. It’s soft and pleasant and warm, so warm that it has Skeppy pressing in closer to fight off another chilled gust of wind that sails overhead and rustles the grass around them. Night has fallen completely, cold and damp – but Bad is here, beside him, holding him close and that’s enough. The feeling of Bad’s chest rising and falling with even breaths is enough.

Except it’s not.

It’s nice, it’s wonderful, but it’s not enough, it’s so great that it’s frustrating and bringing a clench to Skeppy’s jaw because - because he needs more. And he’s not sure if he can ask for it, he’s not sure if he’s allowed because they have spent hours and hours in therapy with and without the other but not once, not ever had he brought up this subject. Not to Doctor Hadid, or Ramos.

Not even to Bad.

Because that’s what they do, even when their trauma and hurt is laid bare. They don’t talk about – _this_ , they just walk their fine line and play by unspoken rules. But whatever was no longer is; the playbook’s in tatters and Skeppy fully, honestly doesn’t know where to look for his cues.

The next question he asks is the hardest. It’s harder to say than asking Bad if he’d wanted to kiss that woman, if Bad had missed Skeppy all those night apart - harder than anything he’s mindlessly blurted out because this isn’t spurious. This is something thought out, forced from a choked throat because Skeppy has to, _has to_ , **_has to_** say it.

His own voice is foreign to his ears as Skeppy buries his face against Bad’s collarbone and finally, finally rasps out:

“What are we?”

There’s no dramatic reaction. No stilling of Bad’s chest, no startled jolt or sharp intake of air. There’s silence, sharp and suffocating before Bad hums a curious note that makes Skeppy instinctively swallow.

“What do you mean?”

Of course it wouldn’t be that simple, that easy. Of course Skeppy has to press and try to explain something they’ve never once put into words.

“We used to kiss,” and _God_ , Skeppy feels so stupid, so ridiculous saying the words aloud. “But I don’t – I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that, anymore. I don’t know what this is.”

Bad’s breathing stutters briefly, his chest dipping for a moment too long before rising and evening out again. His fingers come up, carding through Skeppy’s hair in gentle ministrations before he murmurs back: “You can kiss me.”

And it’s – something. Any other day, moment, second it would be enough and Skeppy would be fighting back a whoop of joy, pinning Bad beneath him and taking exactly what Bad had finally offered, never directly and never so blatantly. Even a minute earlier, this kind of admission would have them rolling in the grass and Skeppy kissing Bad stupid for the next hour, damp and cold and dark be damned.

But it’s missing something. It’s missing what Skeppy had really asked, the end piece of the puzzle. Bad hasn’t given him that.

So it’s not enough.

“I’m glad,” Skeppy says as carefully as he can, doing his best to not sound as breathless as he feels. “But I still – don’t know. What we are.”

Bad’s thumb reaches down, swiping a gentle caress over the cusp of Skeppy’s ear. “You’re my best friend.”

A bitter taste rises in Skeppy’s throat. “That’s all?” he bites out, trying and failing to keep the acid off his tongue. “That’s it, we’re just – what, best friends who kiss?”

Bad shifts beneath him; his hand still in Skeppy’s hair and his breathing slows to a stop. “I don’t understand,” Bad says quietly; it’s breathed like a confession.

Frustration bubbles in Skeppy’s veins as his grip tightens in Bad’s shirt. “What do you- Bad, _I_ don’t understand! You **_kissed_** me, and I don’t-”

“Whoah, _whoah_ ,” Bad interrupts sharply. “ ** _You_** kissed _me_!”

Skeppy rolls his eyes. “I mean you kissed me _first_ , idiot.”

A gasp of affront. “I did **_not_**.”

“Wh-” Skeppy pushes himself up off Bad, sitting up to glare down at the man. “Yes you _did_! You kept giving me those little cheek kisses, and then on the couch-!”

“Those were just on the cheek!” Bad protests, shoving himself upwards to match Skeppy eye to eye. “And no, **_you_** kissed me on the couch! During that awful dog movie, I remember!”

The accusation brings a quick flush to Skeppy’s cheeks, but he quickly corrects: “No, no, not _that_ time. You kissed _me_ first, when I wasn’t paying attention to you. I only kissed you _after_ that!”

“That was an _accident_!” Bad’s own cheeks are reddening, illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns. “Yours was on purpose!”

“No, I-” Skeppy fumbles for the words, gaze breaking to try and recompose his anger from beneath the surge of embarrassment. “I- look, this is ** _stupid_**!”

“You started it!"

“Okay, well!” Skeppy throws his hands in the air before turning his head away. “Whatever, fine, **_don’t_** kiss me, since it’s all **_my_** fault. That you started it,” he mutters stubbornly under his breath.

“I didn’t-” Now it’s Bad’s turn to stammer. “I didn’t say.” A noise of frustration, an oh-so-familiar _hrrrn_. “I didn’t say it’s your _fault_.”

“So?” Skeppy snaps back. “Whose is it?”

“I don’t know!” Bad’s exasperation is tangible. “No one’s?!”

“Whatever.” Skeppy grabs a handful of grass, ripping it up and throwing it to the side. “Just tell me what this is, dude.”

“Skeppy, _I_ _don’t know_.”

It’s not the answer he wants. Maybe it’s what he should have expected, even as it fills his mouth with acidic disappointment.

“Great,” Skeppy mutters back, refusing to lift his gaze from the ground.

He’s not looking at Bad, but he can hear the man sigh low and deep, can perfectly picture the frustration in Bad’s expression and hanging in the air between them. “Skeppy.” It sounds like a plea. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I’ve just – I thought you knew your boundaries, what you wanted.”

“So you don’t?” Skeppy snaps back; the hurt is rising fast, tightening his chest. “So I’ve just been, what pushing you along? I’m just some jerk making you do whatever _I_ want?”

“No!” The refusal is immediate; Skeppy wants to believe it’s the truth. “Skeppy, nothing you’ve done has been… has been over _my_ boundaries. I promise.”

“Which are **_what_**?!” Skeppy’s head is turning, forcefully pinning Bad under his gaze even as the other slightly recoils. “Bad, we can’t just keep – knowing what we want, but not telling the other! Even if you say I haven’t done anything, I dunno, **_too much_** , I don’t know if that’s true!”

“It is!!”

“You’ve never told me where this stops!” Skeppy cries back, the hurt and frustration cracking in his voice. “What if I went too far, Bad?! How am I supposed to know what is and isn’t going to hurt you?!”

“You haven’t-” Bad’s swallowing, looking away even as Skeppy refuses to. “You haven’t. I just…” Another flinch. Bad’s voice is petering out as Skeppy stares angrily, desperately, hopelessly at his friend’s shrinking form.

The wind picks up, singing between them. More silence has fallen.

“Bad,” Skeppy says, trying and failing to keep his voice even. “I heard what you said.”

A blink, a flicker of confusion across Bad’s face followed by a feeble: “What?”

“I heard you.” Skeppy leans in, trying to get Bad to meet his gaze. “When Rat was pawing and scratching at me. When you defended me against her, you muttered- I mean, you said-” Skeppy swallows, willing his voice not to break before continuing:

“You said you loved me more than anyone else in the world.”

Bad sucks in a breath. There’s a tremor to his form that has nothing to do with the cold, the chill that’s settling over them. It’s a cold that demands renewed closeness, the sharing of body heat – but Skeppy doesn’t move. Again, always again – he doesn’t dare.

He needs Bad’s reply. He needs to know if this has pushed too far.

It takes minutes. It’s not spent in complete silence, not nothing as Skeppy watches Bad visibly work to compose and control himself again. Bad’s struggling – they both are, because this is familiar, beneath the gentle words this is just another wound that’s been festering for far too long.

With a shaking, stuttering exhale, Bad finally, finally breathes his reply.

“Of course I do.”

This is an answer Skeppy likes. It’s an answer that’s so simple, feels so obvious yet is still a weight off his chest he hadn’t been consciously holding.

Skeppy’s fingertips, toes, lips are tingling in relief and the sheer buzz of every nerve in his body feeling alight. “Then,” he murmurs, questioning and disbelieving all at once. “Then, what-?”

“But…”

But.

Oh, Skeppy does not like it one bit how quickly his breath sours in his mouth, how immediate the feeling of his heart dropping in his chest.

“I don’t…” Bad’s hesitating, fumbling. Still not meeting his eyes, still holding something back. “I don’t know, if I can give you. What you’re looking for.”

“What-?” Skeppy licks his lips; they’re cracked, as brittle as he feels. “What am I, what do you think I’m looking for?”

“Skeppy,” Bad says slowly, methodically. “I’m not a girl.”

That’s enough to draw a quick bark of laughter; Skeppy immediately tries to tamp it down, tries to quiet it after he sees a flicker of annoyance cross Bad’s face. “No, Bad, I- I know. That’s, I know that.”

“Let me finish,” Bad replies, with more than a slight hint of frustration.

Skeppy obediently shuts his mouth.

“Like I was saying,” Bad continues, annoyance evening the tremor in his voice. “I’m not- that. And what you’ve said you’ve looked for and done, with… them. I’m not…” Bad folds his hands together, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “I don’t know if I’m… or ever will be, comfortable. With. That.”

That?

That.

_Oh._

“Oh,” Skeppy breathes, realization crossing his face – and then confusion and understanding merge in a perfect split.

“We don’t kiss other people.” Bad says it so simply, the single rule they’d lain out so long ago. “And I know you might, want, um. That. But I don’t. With me. But if that’s something you do need, then. I understand, in my head, but I don’t. Want to do that.”

“That’s fine,” Skeppy replies, as easily as the affirmation crosses his mind. Bad blinks at him, surprise plain and maybe Skeppy had answered too quickly, too smoothly to feel genuine.

But it is.

“Skeppy,” Bad says slowly.

“Seriously,” Skeppy interrupts. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Skeppy.”

“Dude, it’s fine.” Skeppy shrugs and it feels – strange? But he’s telling the truth, he knows he is, no matter how bizarre this discussion feels. “I wasn’t ever looking for that.”

“You’ve mentioned it,” Bad replies carefully, warily. “With others.”

“You’re not others.”

That gets a flush on Bad’s face, like a flame licking up his neck. “Well-”

“You’re my best friend.” Skeppy folds his legs together, shifting to let his hands rest in his lap. “I like being near you and around you. And if _you_ like kissing me…” Skeppy trails off, waiting for the affirmation.

Bad lifts a hand, hiding his face in his sleeve before muttering out: “Yes.”

“Then,” Skeppy continues, “I like kissing you too. As long as I can, y’know, kiss you and hold you and stuff, and you’re happy and not doing those or _that_ with other people – I’m okay with it. Whatever we are, whatever we decide to name what this is.”

It’s weird. It feels big, like a momentous discussion that should be as hard to get out as the question that had started it all. But it’s easy, sliding out of him without pause or hesitation because it’s the truth. Maybe it should bother him, maybe it’s a little too open and revealing to tacitly admit that Bad’s constant presence in his life is more important than anything like that.

But Skeppy’s said it. He’s not going to take it back now.

There’s more quiet. Bad’s still hiding his face in his sleeve and Skeppy is patiently waiting him out. Bad’s shivering, hell, Skeppy’s shivering himself because the temperature is dropping fast and they probably shouldn’t be out here for too much longer. Not without blankets or at least the warmth to be gained from dragging Bad into his lap, into his arms.

It’s cold, and it’s silent. But Skeppy’s said what he needed to.

He can wait for the reply, as long as it takes.

Still, it does take long enough that Skeppy’s teeth are chattering by the time Bad finally lowers his sleeve, finally reveals the tears that are dripping down his cheeks as he fixes Skeppy with a look that is equally pleading and implicitly frightened.

“I’m not fixed,” Bad croaks out.

“That’s okay.”

“I’m still scared.”

Skeppy scoots closer, and Bad doesn’t back away. “That’s okay, too,” Skeppy promises; his own voice is wavering now. “I want to know that.”

Bad sniffles, a hiccup following. “I don’t- I don’t know what to call this.”

“Me neither.” Skeppy holds out a hand; with trembling fingers, Bad takes it. “Can I hold you?”

Bad nods, and then Skeppy is pulling him forward, scooping Bad up until he’s got the other man cradled in his lap. He tucks Bad’s head beneath his chin, letting Bad curls and shiver against him. Skeppy wishes he had blankets, had more than just himself and his tight grip to shelter Bad in. But for now, _he_ has to be enough.

“I like being with you,” Bad whispers against his chest.

“I like being with you too,” Skeppy murmurs back. “You’re my best friend.”

“I want to stay with you.” Bad shudders. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.” Skeppy’s fingers reach up, tucking a stray wisp of hair back behind Bad’s ear. “I want to grow old with you. Get big beards and tell kids to fuck off our lawn.”

A warbled, watery chuckle follows and Skeppy presses a kiss to the top of Bad’s head in return. “Is it,” Bad starts, “Is it okay? To be like we were?”

Skeppy hums; his chin and nose are buried in Bad’s hair and he’s breathing in the smell of wet grass and mango-kiwi shampoo. “I don’t think we are like we were."

Bad tenses slightly in his arms, even as Skeppy nuzzles back to soothe. “Is that okay, too?”

“Yeah.” Skeppy brushes another kiss to the side of Bad’s head. “Like I said. We’re better, and we’re still changing. I think it’s okay to do the same stuff. But it feels different. You’re telling me where to stop.”

“And that’s alright?” Still seeking affirmation, confirmation. Still scared and testing a bottomless well of patience.

“Yeah, Bad. I promise. I want to know that. It’s a lot better than not.”

A weak hum. Bad’s own form of affirmation, accompanied by burrowing deeper against Skeppy’s chest. “Okay,” Bad murmurs back.

“Okay,” Skeppy repeats, giving Bad a gentle squeeze. “So we’re best friends.”

“Mhm.”

“Best friends who’re gonna stick by each other. No kissing other people, no seeing other people.”

Another hum, equally affirmative.

“Gonna grow old together.” Skeppy kisses the tip of Bad’s ear. “Gonna get fat together.”

A giggle, gentle and sweet. “And sometimes,” Bad murmurs, “sometimes we kiss.”

“Sometimes we kiss.”

Bad reaches up; Skeppy meets his hand with his own. Their fingers interlock, squeezing together before Skeppy brings them up and presses a gentle kiss to the top of Bad’s knuckles.

“Skeppy?”

“Yeah, Bad?”

“It’s really cold out here.”

Skeppy chuckles, giving a gentle nip to the top of Bad’s hand before letting them drop back down to his lap. “It is absolutely fucking freezing. Want to go home?”

“Yes, please.” Bad squirms in his lap; Skeppy lets him crawl out and get to his feet before hoisting himself up to do the same.

The motions feel comfortable. Eased into a new sort of acceptance instead of strict routine.

“Come on.” Bad extends a hand again; asking for touch, to have their fingers clasp one another once more. “I’ll help you down the hill.”

“You’re older than me, grandpa,” Skeppy replies, an easy grin on his face as he takes Bad’s hand. “Be careful on that knee of yours. Wouldn’t want you to get more stitches.”

“I need to delete that tweet,” Bad mutters, and Skeppy snickers in reply.

The walk back down to the car takes longer than going up, mostly because of how carefully they need to step in the dark. By the time Bad’s beeping the car open, Skeppy feels half-frozen as he tumbles into his seat and starts rapidly blowing on his fingers to warm them. Sure, he’s damp and dirty and his toes have lost some feeling –

But the trip out here had been worth it. And Skeppy is so, so glad they came.

“Hey.”

Bad’s looking at him – Skeppy halts mid-blow, lips puckered out comically. Bad’s gaze is gentle, searching as he places a hand on Skeppy’s knee and leans in.

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s – amazing, wonderful to hear and Skeppy’s first instinct is to blurt out _duh, of course, please_. But he holds it back, tempers it at the last second into a more dignified: “Yeah,” before Bad is leaning in and covering Skeppy’s lips with his own.

It is, by all accounts, a short kiss. It’s chaste, lasting only a moment or two. No tongue, no cheeky nip before Bad is pulling back with a happily dazed expression.

It is also, no holds barred, the best kiss Skeppy’s ever gotten.

Bad’s attention turns back to the road; his hands turn the keys and the engine sputters to life. As Bad pulls them out and back onto the streets, heat begins to pour out of the vents to warm the car and inhabitants.

But it’s fine. Even if his toes are numb, even if the mud’s left a damp spot on his jeans – Skeppy feels fine. Skeppy feels warm from the tips of his fingers to the brow of his thoroughly reddened nose as he stares blissfully at the space Bad had once occupied and savors the ghost of their kiss on his lips.

It feels good to talk about things.

Maybe they still don’t have a proper name for it. Maybe they don’t need one, maybe with enough rules and desires laid out bare, _this_ and _they_ can just - work.

It might be enough. It feels like it, in this moment.

Bad loves him and with all his heart, all his soul, Skeppy loves him back.

It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.


	11. Epilogue

It’d been a beautiful wedding.

Skeppy’d always imagined his somewhere by the sea, somewhere where he could inhale the salty tang of the air and feel a cool breeze on his face. He’d entertained the fantasy of getting married on the beach; perhaps with the sunset behind him, the sand between his toes and maybe, just maybe, a dolphin or two swimming off in the distance.

It’s a nice thought, one he’d enjoyed in privacy in some of his lonelier moments.

Still, the chosen venue had by no means been a downgrade from his own preferences. There may have been no smell of the sea but a hillside wedding seemed fitting for spring, with blooming flowers filling the air with delicate perfumes. Skeppy doesn’t know what the hall owner had done to keep the bugs out, but the lack of bees or other insects flitting around his head or the flower arrangements on each table had been a nice bonus.

It’d been a warm afternoon, and the combination of nerves and heat had him left him sweating right out his suit. He’d had to loosen his tie and fan himself with his hand more than once, formality of the occasion be damned. The sheer amount of people packed into the reception hall had added to the stuffiness in the air; while Skeppy may be Florida-grown, there are limits to how well he can tolerate ninety-degree heat without shorts.

Still – it’s not like the event hadn’t come with perks.

Bad really is so pretty in a suit.

Skeppy knows the man prefers comfort and casual to formal attire, but there is something about Bad in a suit that is just – stunning. Maybe it’s the rarity, maybe it’s how unfamiliar it is to see Bad done up and dressed to the nines. But every time it takes his breath away, had left him staring happily at the other man and dozing off into daydreams even as they’d straightened each other’s ties before slipping into the car.

It’d probably been a good idea that Bad was the one to drive them there. Skeppy hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the man the entire time.

Even now, ten days later and slumped ungracefully onto the couch, Skeppy is more than enjoying himself as he swipes through the gallery on his phone. Bad may have tried to bashfully duck photos when he saw them coming, but Skeppy’s snapped more than his fair share of candids to make up for it. The heat had added a perpetual flush to Bad’s cheeks, accentuating his expressions of amusement and embarrassment whenever he’d spotted Skeppy aiming his phone just a second too late.

Annoyingly, Vurb’s got the only video of the single dance Skeppy’d managed to coax out of Bad, and he’s holding it hostage ‘for an eventual favor’. While it had been wonderful, exhilarating to spin Bad across the dance floor – Skeppy wants to see it from another point of view. No matter how many times he’s replayed the moment in his head, it’s still not enough. No amount of reliving compares to the memory of Bad in his arms, flushed to the nines as they’d danced and spun to cheers and applause.

 _God_ , but Bad had been pretty in a suit.

Skeppy sighs, dropping his phone onto his chest before stretching and folding his arms behind his head. It’s nowhere near as bad as that blistering afternoon, but the apartment is still surprisingly warm for March. It’s a pleasant sort of heat though, making him drowsy and content as Skeppy lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and settles deeper into the cushions. Lazy Sunday vibes, and only one thing could make it better.

Unfortunately, Bad’s squirreled away in his room instead of cuddled up on the couch and that fact is bringing a childish pout to Skeppy’s lips. True, what Bad is doing is important because, equally true, Bad’s been away from streaming for far too long. Bad’s sub count had lapsed even below Skeppy’s, despite Bad starting to appear on scattered streams amongst their friends. But Bad’s yet to make an official return to his own channel, has let his setup collect dust and disuse – so now Skeppy’s stuck being lonely on the couch while Bad runs tech support on his own damn hardware.

Not fair. Bad should be here, curled up at his side and draped languidly over Skeppy’s chest where he _belongs_.

Another sigh as Skeppy flexes his toes and arcs his back in another stretch. He half-wants to get up and see what Bad’s doing – but the other half is content to just lie here and be cozy for another hour at least. Bad probably won’t be done reconfiguring his specs soon, anyway – his single tweet to announce his return to streaming that night had trended in minutes, and Skeppy’d been left watching his friend’s nerves tick upward with each new reply. Bad’s always hated disappointing people; not that Happytwt would care if the man streamed in utter silence with a black screen.

Skeppy knows. They’ve told him, repeatedly, on all of his own streams while Bad’s been away. A bit of fair game perhaps, considering how many of Bad’s own streams are peppered with questions about _him_.

Skeppy’s stomach gives an irritable growl and he lets out a groan in reply. The prospect of getting up to fix a snack is equally appealing and annoying; on one hand, there’s leftover pizza in the fridge and the thought of something salty and greasy sounds amazing right now. On the other hand, Bad had gotten his half with pickles on it because Bad’s food preferences are _disgusting_ and _vile_ and Skeppy’s still harboring a grudge over having pickle essence infecting the corners of his own slices.

Plus, getting up to reheat it means just that – that Skeppy would have to get up.

He entertains the thought of ordering in – it wouldn’t solve the latter problem, but it’ll stall it. Skeppy mentally ticks through his options as he raises his left hand above his head, stretching out his fingers towards the ceiling.

He squints slightly, as a beam of light glints harshly off the ring on his finger.

It’s a pretty thing; he thinks so, anyway. It had been his thought all those months ago, back at that kitschy little mall kiosk that he’d wandered to while Bad was returning some clothes. Skeppy might have been drawn in by the fancy little helicopter toys, but the assortment of rings by the cash register had pulled his attention with surprising interest. It’s not like they’d been particularly impressive pieces; they’d been cheap quality, made of medal and glazed to reflect a spectrum of their designated color.

When Skeppy had spuriously bought a red and blue, he’d thought they’d break in a week, maybe two. When Bad had met him at the food court, Skeppy’d thought the man would laugh when Skeppy had taken his hand and slipped the little blue ring on his friend’s finger.

Bad had laughed, but it’d been – pitched. Tinged by the flush on the man’s cheeks, the delighted and amused smile that had sent Skeppy’s heart fluttering; doubly so when Bad had reached for his hand and slid the red onto Skeppy’s own.

The rings had lasted. Lasted through more wear and tear than Skeppy had ever expected, lasted through the weeks turned months that the rings remain on their fingers because Bad – Bad doesn’t take his off. Bad wears it daily, while chopping vegetables or walking Rat or even beating Skeppy at chess yet again. Bad keeps wearing the silly, cheap little ring that Skeppy had bought for him through thick and thin.

So, Skeppy doesn’t take his off either.

They haven’t talked about it. They’ve had quips, mentions of how they liked wearing them. They’ve had moments where they kiss each other’s before embracing properly, hungrily. They’re a lot better about talking about things, they’ve had more sessions than Skeppy can count - but they aren’t perfect.

And, maybe Skeppy likes this bit as it is. Undiscussed. Open for now, to what it might or might not mean because he’s - well. Open. To whichever meaning Bad might want, to find out whenever it does seem like the right time to talk about it.

He has a feeling Bad’s the same way.

As Skeppy turns his hand over, admiring the way the ring glints in the light, his stomach gives another impatient rumble. Skeppy rolls his eyes before pushing himself up into a sitting position. He gropes around until he finds his phone, slid halfway into the cushions, before he swipes it open and starts scrolling through his apps.

It’s a little lazy, but the thought of ordering in was growing more enticing. Maybe not just for himself, but for Bad as well; when Skeppy glances at the clock at the upper right of his screen, it’s only thirty minutes away from when Bad plans to start streaming at. Since Bad’s yet to exit his den, Skeppy’s pretty sure the other hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

What better way to ring in a comeback stream than with some of Bad’s favorite food?

Skeppy thumbs through the options; Cheesecake Factory sounds too heavy, Jimmy Johns, too light. He entertains filling up the cart with Korean barbecue before moving on; he likes it, and some galbi-gui sounds pretty good right about now - but it’s not one of Bad’s top choices.

He ends up settling on a small Italian restaurant, a family-run local hole-in-the-wall that Bad is particularly proud of discovering. Their prices are a little too high for the portions in Skeppy’s opinion, but Mom and Pop’s need business and it’s not like he and Bad don’t have cash to spare. So Skeppy taps through their usuals, adds a gluten-free brownie at the end, and hits Order before his phone chimes in confirmation.

Honestly the place is only two blocks away. Skeppy could walk there instead of getting delivery.

But – and this is key - it’s a _very_ comfy couch.

Twenty minutes tick by as Skeppy relaxes into the cushions, swiping through a losing round of Candy Crush on his phone. The defeat music chimes on his screen, prompting him to purchase additional lives as Skeppy rolls his eyes and tabs over to Twitter. Most of his feed is caps-locked text posts, likely hype for Bad’s stream, so he closes down the browser and opens up Discord to check his DM’s.

Three new messages from Vurb.

This should be interesting.

Skeppy taps open the conversation, scrolling down to the New Messages line before scanning the text below.

**_Hey_ **

**_Bitch boy_ **

**_I need a favor_ **

Skeppy perks a brow, even if no one’s around to see it. Vurb’s icon is lit up yellow, so Skeppy doesn’t expect a quick reply as he types back: **_what favor_**

In an instant, Vurb’s icon flashes green.

**_I want to see your camera roll from Ant’s wedding_ **

Skeppy’s nose crinkles in confusion. **_why?_**

**_You took a picture of me_ **

**_so?_ **

**_It was the one where I spilled wine right?_ **

**_so?_** Skeppy types back again. **_im keeping that as blackmail_**

**_Idc. I was talking to someone next to me, I need the picture of that_ **

Curious, Skeppy minimizes the conversation to re-open his phone’s gallery. He scrolls down to about midway through the list until he spies the tell-tale dark red stain sticking out on Vurb’s shirt. Skeppy taps the photo, blowing it up wide as he leans in to study the picture.

Vurb’s right – he is next to someone. A girl.

A _pretty_ girl.

Skeppy can use this.

He re-opens Discord, tapping out: **_yeah i have it. idk why u need it though_**

**_Just send it_ **

**_u know what i want in exchange_ **

**_One pic is not worth a two minute video that I know you’d kill for_ **

**_thats the deal dude_ **

**_No deal bitch boy_ **

**_i know her_ **

The conversation goes silent for a moment.

**_No you don’t_ **

**_i could tell u who to call rn for her number. im not even lying_ **

**_Prove it_ **

**_if i tell u ull just call them and try to weasel out of the deal_ **

**_Nuh uh_** , Vurb replies, and Skeppy can smell the lie from here.

 ** _look,_** he types back. **_if im lying ill let u post that pic you stole of my feet off facetime_**

 ** _Hmmmmm._** Vurb is typing flashes on the screen, then dies out, then reappears before: **_Okay deal_**

**_send me the video first_ **

**_Says the file size is too big to send over Discord_ **

**_private link on youtube it then_ **

**_God fine_ **

Skeppy hums to himself, minimizing the conversation yet again as he taps open DoorDash. The driver’s just left the restaurant, there’s some automatic apology for delays, but it’s fine. Bad’s still ten minutes away from streaming, and Skeppy doesn’t want to barge in right while he’s still doing his warm-up intro.

He briefly wonders if he should tune in today. Perhaps having skeppylive showing in the chat will help reassure some of their fans – or maybe not? Hard to say how it might be taken, beyond _memememe Skeppy you love Bad so much mememememe_.

Which - shut up.

His phone buzzes with a new message; Skeppy swipes Discord open again to see Vurb’s sent him a link.

Almost surprisingly, it’s exactly what Vurb promised.

Skeppy watches through halfway, heart warmed and a big silly grin on his face at the sight of Bad’s shy blush and fumbling steps. Then his phone buzzes again, and he’s reminded there’s a very impatient toe fiend on the other line. So Skeppy taps the link into a downloader before tabbing back over to their conversation.

**_Pay up shortie_ **

Skeppy smiles to himself, loading up the picture and sending it right back over. **_there u go furry_**

 ** _Hey,_** Vurb snaps. **_You promised deets too_**

 ** _she’s puffy’s cousin_** , Skeppy replies back. **_hit discount skeppy up for the number_**

**_Cool_ **

**_she’s also married_** , Skeppy types back gleefully. **_and a lesbian_**

**_FUCK YOU_ **

Skeppy cackles to himself, closing down the app as Vurb abruptly goes offline.

He might be blocked for the next week, but it feels worth it.

Skeppy’s phone buzzes again; the driver’s approaching with their food. With a groan of exertion, Skeppy rolls off the couch and fluffs his hair back into place before slinking over towards the door.

He waits at the entryway, leaning on the wall before the sound of footsteps approach. Then the doorbell rings and Skeppy covers his ears. Rat and Rocco come instantly barreling around the corner with a flurry of barks, jumping at the door with furious indignation at the _balls_ on this _intruder_.

“Thank you!” Skeppy calls loudly; through the door, he hears some muffled word of acknowledgement before the driver retreats back down the steps. Skeppy waits until he can see them drive away until he inches open the door, toeing the dogs repeatedly back before he can worm out and grab the food.

Even through the plastic containers, he can smell garlic and butter wafting up from the bag; his mouth waters as he squirms his way back inside and shuts the door behind him.

Rocco and Rat sniff and crowd him curiously as Skeppy wades past them; he heads towards the kitchen to lay out the meal. He could just walk in and hand Bad the plastic bowl, but Skeppy thinks he can do better. Plating out Bad’s meal seems like a nicer touch; probably more convenient and a better visual to encourage Bad to eat it before the man – sometimes predictably – forgets to do so.

He arranges the pasta and garlic bread as best he can, careful to partition the bread with drier noodles so the sauce doesn’t leak over and turn it soggy. He puts the brownie on a smaller plate, shaking out a spoonful of whipped cream before topping it with a frozen cherry. They don’t keep much fresh fruit around, usually because Skeppy forgets to eat it before it goes bad, but at least the freezer’s always well-stocked.

Rat is still sniffing insistently at his heels as Skeppy steps over her, making his way through the living room and over to Bad’s door. It’s shut, but when he presses his ear against the wooden frame, Skeppy can hear the familiar sound of Bad’s chipper greetings and thank-you’s towards the donations no doubt flooding his Streamlabs. Listening closely, Bad seems to be running down a brief outline of his plans for the stream – something about the mansion being defaced, and Skeppy can swear he hears the word ‘revenge’ somewhere in there.

Skeppy doesn’t want to interrupt, but the pasta’s visibly cooling on the plate as the steam dissipates more and more. So carefully, quietly, Skeppy presses down on the door’s handle with his elbow until the mechanism slides out of place and Skeppy can nudge his way inside.

The room’s decently lit, which is a bit of a surprise – Bad prefers a darker setting when he doesn’t have his Rat Cam on. The man himself is situated in his chair, his side profile in full view as he happily chats away at the screen; from the lack of attention, he hasn’t noticed Skeppy’s slipped in.

Maybe the thought comes from the residual high of Vurb’s video, but Bad looks extra pretty today. His hair is neatly brushed, his glasses glinting and looking freshly cleaned – even his usual posture looks improved. He’s gesturing animatedly, a common trait of his, but the image of Bad sassily flicking his wrist for an audience of none is both amusing and endearing.

Bad continues to be too distracted to notice, so Skeppy stealthily creeps closer and closer until he can reach down and set the plate on the edge of Bad’s desk. He can read the computer screen from this angle; Bad’s character is standing atop their mansion and predictably, the place looks absolutely wrecked. Skeppy’s brow pinches with a brief flash of annoyance – seriously, why was it always their place?

He shakes off the irritation to soften his expression with a smile; gently, he taps Bad’s shoulder for attention to gesture down at the plate.

At the touch, Bad freezes.

A second later, Bad turns and gapes at him, mouth ajar.

Across Bad’s face there’s pure, unadulterated shock and, and-

Oh no.

Hoping, praying against the first thought that pops into his head, Skeppy’s gaze flicks up to the monitor and he finally, finally spots the little red light blinking at, _damning_ him. Chilling realization crackles down his spine.

Bad’s webcam is on.

\---

How was Skeppy supposed to know?

How, how, _why_ had Bad had his facecam on? Bad _never_ streams with it on – Skeppy’d had to pay ten thousand dollars the last time, so why? Why, why, _why now_?

Why hadn’t he checked? Asked? Alerted Bad before, why had he thought sneaking in with a snack was a good idea when it was the same stupid fucking idea that Vurb had caught them on in the first place and just-

_Why._

Chanting the question brings no relief; Skeppy’s back on the couch, lying on his stomach with his face buried into a pillow to muffle more than one scream of frustrated embarrassment.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid Skeppy.

He had, in a moment of weakness, checked Twitter with the greatest of apprehension – only to find that six different phrases all relating to _Skeppy_ , _BadBoyHalo_ and _Meetup_ were all trending. In all caps.

Great.

His Discord’s no better. His DM’s are absolutely destroyed from fans and friends alike. He’s received no less than twenty pictures of the letter L from Mega, a voicemail that is only screaming laughter from Vurb, and a Twitter link to an altered copypasta from Spifey.

_I actually went to Bad’s but we thought it would be funny if I didn’t say I did, and we were going to make a video about it but then got afraid that it would hype you guys too much so we didn’t make the video. there’s a lot of footage of Rat and Rocco from when they met_

Even Antfrost hasn’t let him off the hook with a: **_Velvet says_** **_that’s what you two get for upstaging us at our own wedding_** before finishing with the same L picture Mega had sent.

Skeppy needs new friends.

Bad is – still streaming. At least, Skeppy thinks he is, because it’s been over an hour and Bad hasn’t come out of his room yet. Skeppy actually has no idea if Bad’s clicked off, if Bad’s just sitting in silence and trying to work out what to do now that Skeppy’s just – walked into the fucking room! Showed up on stream with no warning! Probably would have kissed Bad if he’d realized a second later!

Another groan as Skeppy mashes his face into the pillow and kicks his feet against the armrest.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

_Fuck._

Skeppy lies there for who knows how long – he’s shut off his phone to stop the incessant buzzing and is finding that hiding his face in darkness is much more preferable than acknowledging everything outside his makeshift den.

He’s probably sleeping on the couch tonight, anyway. Bad’s exiled him from the bed before for eating pork and beans for dinner – and, in part, giggling about Bad fanning his nose in disgust. Skeppy has little doubt that accidentally outing their living situation to fifty thousand people is worthy of a similar fate.

Skeppy might as well get comfy now.

He’s still distraught, still groaning into the pillow by the time he feels the couch dip with additional weight. Bad always walks softly in more precarious situations; he’s so good at sneaking up, Skeppy’s barely startled at the new presence at his side. A soft sigh that Skeppy can’t place as exhausted or merely fond before there’s a gentle touch on his ankle, accompanied by a small rub of Bad’s thumb.

“I’m done streaming, now.”

 _Obviously_ , Skeppy thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he mutters: “And how did _that_ go?” As if he doesn’t know, as if he can’t predict the explosive aftermath Bad had been left to deal with.

“Interesting,” Bad hums back. He’s still petting Skeppy’s ankle; the couch shifts as he scoots closer, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of Skeppy’s thigh. “I got a _lot_ of donations.”

That’s enough to draw a weak laugh. “Man, can’t imagine why.”

“Yeah.” A gentle squeeze before Bad continues: “I think some of the regulars went broke from just that stream.”

A snort, that Bad returns with a chuckle of his own. It’s strange, but Bad… doesn’t sound angry. Tired for certain, but the amusement underlying the other man’s tone is tangible.

Skeppy dares risk a peek out from behind his pillow, and with a quick twist of his neck he confirms that yes, Bad is smiling at him.

There’s a scrutinizing once-over before Skeppy carefully remarks: “I thought you’d be angrier with me.”

“I’m not angry.” A small shake of Bad’s head. “It was an accident, and I didn’t warn you.”

“You _never_ stream with facecam on.”

“I know.” Bad’s hand slides up until it’s tracing the curve of Skeppy’s back. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to do it until just a little bit before. I was setting everything up, and everybody had been asking for one, so I just…” A shrug. “Wanted to put their minds at ease, show them I was alright.”

“Well, they definitely got a show.”

“Are _you_ angry?” Bad queries.

“Wh- no,” Skeppy quickly protests. “No way. I didn’t warn you either. I just wanted to, y’know…”

“I liked the food.” Bad’s smile is sincere, his eyes kind. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” Skeppy lets his gaze fall as he slumps back against the pillow. “I’m sure it kept your energy up as you- I dunno. What did you even _say_ to them?”

Bad shrugs. “Nothing. I just did my usual running around on the SMP and pretended like nothing had happened. I said I didn’t know _what_ they were talking about to all the donos asking.”

Skeppy chuckles. “Yeah. You’re good at that.”

“I didn’t want to talk about it with them before talking about it with you first.” A gentle rub just below Skeppy’s shoulder. “Settling on a story together.”

“What story should that be?” Skeppy rolls off his stomach until he’s lying on his back, looking up at Bad with a craned neck. “Just saying it was a meetup we didn’t tell them about?”

“We could,” Bad affirms with a nod. “We could keep pretending nothing happened, but I think they’ll just keep hounding us until we admit it. We could say we met up and just didn’t tell anyone yet, or that we planned to surprise them and it was all a bit.”

Hm. That’s a tempting thought. Happytwt _is_ always fun to play with.

“Or,” Bad continues casually. “We could just tell them the truth.”

Skeppy blinks.

_The truth?_

“What-?” Skeppy licks his lips. “What is… the truth, to you?”

“That we’re living together.” Bad shrugs. “That we’ve _been_ living together. Or anything else we want to share.”

Oh.

Oh, oh, _oh_.

“You…” Skeppy clears his throat, careful to keep his voice even. “You said you didn’t want to tell people that.”

Bad nods, even as he replies: “I did. But…” The man glances away, expression growing a little shy. “I don’t know. I didn’t exactly think it’d happen in this scenario, but, I mean…” Another shrug.

“I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” Skeppy’s pushing himself up, sitting up straight to catch Bad’s gaze. “It’s okay if you still don’t want to.”

“I know.” Bad’s folded his hands in his laps, fingers kneading each other. “And I’m glad you’re willing to give that to me. But,” Bad repeats for the third time, “I just… I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind. If they knew.”

“You did,” Skeppy counters softly, searching Bad’s expression for discomfort, for a trace of a lie.

“But I don’t anymore.” Bad reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. “I didn’t say it, but part of the reason was I was just – unsure? But I’m not as unsure. Anymore, I mean.”

“About-?”

“A lot of things.” There’s a small smile. “I wasn’t as sure about – this. You, me. What millions of people knowing would do to something that was…”

“Unspoken,” Skeppy supplies; Bad nods. “No, I… I get it. I mean, that was part of the reason I… wanted to, I think? Which, I guess is kind of opposite of how you were thinking, but I wanted… I dunno.”

“To stake your claim.” Bad’s smile skews smug and Skeppy rolls his eyes fondly.

“Shut up.”

“Jelly Skeppy.”

“Yeah, okay,” Skeppy drawls. “JealousBoyHalo.”

“I,” Bad pronounces, drawing himself up to his full sitting height. “I am not jealous. I have never been jealous, ever.

“Yeah, okay,” Skeppy repeats, lacing as much sarcasm as he can into each syllable. “Sure, Bad.”

“I have not. Not once.”

“If I started listing out all the times you’ve been jealous, we’d be here until next week.”

“No,” Bad scoffs. “We’d be here til now, because there’s been zero times which would be zero seconds, so it’s already over and you’ve already lost.”

“This is very stupid.”

“Jealous of my big brain too?”

Skeppy rolls his eyes; even beneath the scoffing and blatant falsehoods, he can’t help but feel fond. “Whatever.”

“Awww.” Skeppy feels a touch on his hand; he looks down and sees Bad’s intertwining their fingers again. “Skeppy, don’t be mad. We can’t all be as smart as me.”

“So true,” Skeppy says sweetly, “Bad, remind me what guava is?”

Bad immediately drops their fingers, moving to stand. “I’m leaving.”

Skeppy cackles, catching his friend’s sleeve before Bad can move away. “Stop, stop. I’m kidding. Bad, sit down, I’m kidding.”

Bad drops back down to the couch with a huff; he’s pouting, but he doesn’t pull away when Skeppy moves to lace their fingers together once more. “I know what guava is.”

“I know, Bad.”

“It’s a vegetable.”

“Absolutely,” Skeppy lies. “You’re so smart.”

Another huff; Bad gives a squeeze that’s probably meant to be disciplinary as he sinks back into the cushion. “So?”

“So, what?”

“What do you want to do?” Bad’s looking over at him, petulant expression morphing into something more serious. “What do you want to tell them?”

“Oh.”

It’s – a good question. Wrapped up in the teasing, Skeppy hadn’t given much thought to it. Yet it’s a rather heavy question, even in it’s simplicity. Bad’s given the all clear to reveal as little or much as they want; it’s both comforting and daunting at the same time. With Bad’s boundaries lowered and permission granted, Skeppy can take or keep as much as he wants. He can reveal all, or hoard it to himself.

The question is how much of this, them, Bad does he want to share?

Before, the answer would have been immediate because of his need to know, to confirm through the eyes of others what this looked like, what it was supposed to be. Before he’d been hurt by the refusal of stepping into public view, had felt like Bad had been ashamed or dismissive of him and them and this. And yes, maybe, just a little bit, he’d wanted to stake a bit of claim and rub it in Quackity’s face.

Just a little. He won’t admit it aloud, though.

But now?

He doesn’t think he needs that.

“Skeppy?”

Bad’s looking at him; Skeppy realizes he’s been quiet for too long, has let silence sit between them as Bad’s expression darkens with concern.

Skeppy clears his throat, letting a smile grace his lips as he meets Bad’s gaze. “I dunno,” he replies. “I mean, I’m not opposed to just telling the truth. But…”

“But?” Bad repeats cautiously.

Skeppy’s smile widens into a grin. “Wouldn’t it be kind of fun to mess with them? Just for a little bit?”

Bad’s concern turns to amused skepticism. “Skeppy…”

“Come on,” Skeppy presses. “It’d be funny. We can just keep showing up on each other’s stream, every so often. We don’t tell them, always say it’s just us meeting up.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Bad points out. “They’ll realize you’ve stopped hopping to and from LA every other week.”

“Yeah, but that’s the fun part.” Skeppy shifts, looping an arm around Bad’s shoulder to draw him closer. “They know, but we don’t tell them. It’ll drive them crazy.”

“Skeppy! That’s so _mean_.”

“So many donos,” Skeppy replies gleefully. “So much theorizing. I can already see the memes.”

“Oh my goodness.” Bad’s doing his best to look disapproving, but Skeppy can see the barely-hidden amusement twitching in the corner of the man’s lips. “You’re going to make my chat unusable.”

“We’ll tell them.” Skeppy leans over, pressing a quick kiss against the side of Bad’s forehead. “Eventually. But, wouldn’t it be fun to string them along? Just for a little bit?”

“You’re mean,” Bad sighs, even as he leans into the touch. “Bad Skeppy.”

“Bad’s Skeppy.” Another kiss, teasingly close to Bad’s lips. “Skeppy’s Bad.”

“You’re definitely bad,” is murmured in reply, before Bad loops his own arms around Skeppy’s neck and pulls him in for a _proper_ kiss.

It’s a little silly how common an occurrence it’s become, but Skeppy still loses track of just how long they lay there and kiss. It’s not hours, not even close, but it’s long enough for his brain to have lost any semblance of thought, gone pleasantly fuzzy by the time they finally break apart to just – look at the other.

Bad really is so, so pretty.

“I’m definitely bad,” Skeppy rasps hoarsely. “I’m also definitely Bad’s.”

Bad smiles dazedly, approval plain as he reaches up to trace a line down Skeppy’s cheek. “You are,” he affirms. “My Skeppy.”

“My Bad,” Skeppy counters, hunger winning over as he recaptures the man’s lips in a kiss. Bad hums pleasantly against his mouth before they part once more – not before Skeppy’s nipped at Bad’s lower lip, not before Bad gives a teasing lick as Skeppy pulls away.

“So,” Bad murmurs, arms raising to cup Skeppy’s face in his hands. “We’re not telling.”

“Not yet.” Skeppy’s eyes flutter half-shut as he feels Bad rub circles just below his ears. “Soon.”

“Soon,” Bad promises. “For now, it’ll just be…”

“Unspoken,” Skeppy repeats fondly.

“Unspoken.” Bad’s own gaze lids as he smiles up at the other man. “I love you, Skeppy.”

Skeppy nuzzles into the touch, fondness, adoration, love beating in his veins and warming his chest as he soaks in the sensation of touch, of Bad, of them. “I love you too, Bad.”

It feels so easy to say, to announce to his best friend, his roommate, his – everything. It’s fluid, dripping off his tongue without friction or hesitation because no matter how badly he’s fucked up, no matter how angry or frustrated or embarrassed Bad gets it is always, always returned. It’s still there, still beating beneath every fight and cold shoulder, every misspoken word or silence that stretches on too long. It’s never gone, never broken.

It might go unspoken sometimes. But it’s still there, still real, still theirs.

Bad’s smile is soft, his touch slow and gentle as he murmurs: “More than anyone else?”

Skeppy re-opens his eyes, holding Bad’s gaze with his own as he murmurs back the simple, unbreakable truth.

“More than anyone else in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thank you for reaching this point; I enjoyed writing for Unspoken Rules very much, and I'm very appreciate of all the support I received.
> 
> This, however, is not the end of my writing! I have several one-shots and chaptered stories already lined up and outlined; when they're published, I will announce each on my Twitter @sparklingco2 and compile a list of links in Chapter One of Unspoken Rules as well.
> 
> This last chapter was, once again, inspired by Kevnimi's art!
> 
> https://twitter.com/kevnimi/status/1349434273279987734  
> https://twitter.com/kevnimi/status/1362913744968429576


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